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■ LIB RARY OF CONGRESS, # 



#|l«ip fcisw h I 

I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ^ 



THE LEGETsTD 



O I^ 



OTHER POEMS. 




SAN JOSE, CAL. 

J. J. OWEN, PRINTER 
1876. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, 

By Mary T. Malonf-y, 
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 



^(REFACE 



This book is published, Hke some others, not 
wholly for the public, but for a circle of admiring 
friends: — here let me include those whom I do not 
as yet know, as well as those who are my kind sub- 
scribers. Meanwhile having become a book, these 
poems will also reach that ultima thule, the hand of 
the critic, and let us hope considerate judgment will 
even then say: 

" The barrl sighs forth a gentle episode 
A nd gravely tells—" 

But in the opposite event, what if another Jefifrey 
should find — 

" His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And rai"e this Daniel to the judgment seat " 

The poems are the scattered amusements and im- 
pressions of years in Louisiana and California, except 
the Legend, which was commenced and completed 
as a front piece within the last few weeks, since men- 
tion was first made of the book, because Mr. Owen — 
that friend and patron of the Muse — said in a notice 
that the " Longest and best had never yet been pub- 
lished." I then tried to prepare something which 



might justify praise and expectation. It has been 
urged by some personal friends that I have chosen a 
subject for the principal poem of too old-time a 
character, — I may here answer that so did Sir Walter 
Scott; so did Tasso, and so did Tennyson of our own 
day, in his "Knights of the Kound Table," or "Idyls 
of the King." I beg pardon of the last mentioned 
great poet who is yet alive, and might be provoked 
at one's comparisons. 

When I had about half completed the Legend I 
was thoughtfully recollected of a strange coincidence: 
Mention is made in an appendix of Mr. Chorley's to 
a volume of "Letters and Memoirs," which he edited 
for Mrs. Hemans, that two of her "principal poems 
were unaccountably lost, or destroyed. One was en- 
titled the ' Secret Tribunal, ' and the other ' The Cru- 
saders.' " He regrets them very much, and observes 
in his closing remarks, that if they evei; should be dis- 
covered they would form the nucleus of a new volume 
of remains. The reader will perceive in the "Legend 
of Nonnenwerth" the suggestiveness of "Crusaders," 
and the author will modestly say, that knowing not of 
it till it was done, yet if she may have fulfilled in any 
wise the beautiful intention of one who has gone 
' ' before, ' ' she will be almost willing to resign the pres- 
tige of originality. M. T. Maloney. 



ZISTIDE^^ 



A Home of Lang Syne, . 






90 


Annie Lee, 






98 


Altsay Burn, . 






99 


Aga Mohammed, 






104 


Carlisle Castle, . 






61 


Communings in Old Places, 






69 


Columbus, 






72 


Dead in the Steerage, . 






63 


Found Dead, . 






86 


Flowers Gathered on the Way Home, 




89 


Garden Walks at Notre Dame, 




87 


In Absence, 




92 


Incline Unto My Aid — An Acrostic, 




97 


Impromtu, 




113 


Josephine at Malmaison, 




58 


Lament of Leonora, 




34 


Lines, Etc., 




65 


Lines Written for an Album, 




71 


Lines to My Oldest Son, 






84 



La Peteoleuse, 
Lines, Etc., .... 
MOTHEE, ..... 
Mgsic, 

MiEAGE ON THE PLAINS OF HcNCtAE5', 

Songs of Ieeland, ... 

SwiNBUENE Pleading to Sappho, 

Sunset in Califoenia, 

The Legend of Nonnenweeth, 

toetesa and mueillo, 

The Black Hole of Calcutta, 

The Funeeal of Albeet Sidney Johnson, 

The Hillside Eide, .... 

The Tei-coloe on the Spiee at Metz, . 

The Haunts of the Geeek Beigands, 

Thy Little Childeen 

The Token King of Essex and Elizabeth, 
The Little Boy that Died at Sea, 
The Snow Upon the Heights at San Josk, 
ViCTOE NoiE, ...... 

Welcome to the Noemal School, . 




95 
112 

74 

75 

93 

53 

106 

123 

9 

50 

77 

82 

109 

114 

116 

118 

120 

121 

122 

47 

80 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 



TO DK. M. S. McMAHON THIS LEGEND IS DEDICATED, AS A 

TKIBUTE OF ESTEEM AND GEATITUDE, 

BY THE AUTHOK, 



THE LEGEXD OF NOXNENWEBTB. 



[The Archof Rolandseck only remains of the once strong 
and mtignificent castle built by Roland, th? nepbew of Char- 
lemagne He chose for his site the pinnacle of Boderbprg, 
overlooking the Rhine. From its watch-towers eonld also be 
seen the lake and convent of Nonnenwerth, in which its prom- 
ised bride, believing him to be dead, immured herself previous 
to his long delayed'return from the crusades.]— ,S'ce?ie7-.v of the 

fRoland was the son of Mil©, Count of Anglers, and Bertha, 
sister of Charlemagne. The word "Paladin," or "Palatine, 
afterward so common in poetry as a characteristic designauon 
of the warriors of Charlemagne, was first applied to Rolani 
and bis followers bv a Saxon poet who wrote in the reign ot 
the Emperor Arnulphus, about seventy years a^ter the death 
of Charles. In the deUp of the Pyrenees is yet shown a flower 
called the Ca^q-ie de Roland, and a steep and rusrged defile in the 
Crest of the mountain is • ointed out as the Breche -^e Roland. 
Here.also, in t e last century stood a -^mall chapel in the immed- 
iate neighborhood of Roncesvalles which tradition aflirms to be 
the chipf's resting place, who, together with Roland, comprising 
in all thirty nights of the Palace, fel! victims to thatmemorablp 
and treacherous attack of the Gascon-. Thirty tombs without 
inscriot'on %vere to be seen in the vicinity, and a quantity ot 
bones' were shown in a cave under the chapel. I have re- 
taiupd the precise identity of this spot though three others 
in the lonalitv are pointed out and severally claimed as burial 
plaesof RVland. What earth is specially incorporated with 
the clav of the hero matters ^lotand Is probably mi.;nown.]- 
See Xntfs to the Life of Chnrlemagne. 



I^WhY crumbling arch yet stands, O, Rolandseck! 

^' Far np the rocky steep of Drachenfels; 

^ There thrills the mnsic of the streams that break 
Their broad paths down to where the blue Ehine swells. 
Cold are the craters of thy centuries, 
Where Palatines hove marched, thy patlis are peace, 
And thy green willows are yet dense in dells 
Whence Charlemagne's goldbannersandbright shields 
Went forth to glorious strife on Syrian fields. 



10' THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEBTH. 

Fire-born the lava of tliy seven heights ;^^ 
Along the river castled turrets rise; 
There clings the ivy on the tinted blights, 
Soundless and luminous in evening skies. 
Repose hath starlight and the mingling wave. 
Decay hath sunlight and the voiceless grave, 
AVhile no clashed cimeter to shield replies; 
No charger's footsteps near thy fountains fall, 
No revels holdethin thy roofless hall. 

How shall we bring the records back, of days 
Glad with the laugh and love and eyes of life? 
The joyous brows that won their knightlj'^ bays? 
The free, high worth of peace, the strength of strife? 
The swan-like throats of music that have sung? 
The deep vein'd, tine soft glances that have flung 
Sweet souls into each other, and made rife 
Their story with thine ages, freighted years, 
So long gone hence with tributes and with tears? 

Thy trees have fallen down to silent caves, 
Thy floors of stone shut in the graves of men; 
Rude piles make echoes from the troubled waves. 
AVhen winter night and storm return again. 
These are of things not lost where Roland was. 
Roland of crest and lance and bannered cross; 
One of the kingly men who hath said to pain, 
Thy tomb 's a beauteoiis toy, and lo! the stone 
That rolls away from thee is called a crown! 



The crystal key of contemplation turns. 
In the fine lock of ausjnces: create 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 11 

With the okl dust of time's imcovered urns 

Blown sea-ward unto thee,* O, Golden Gate; 

Not of thee, Shasta! high, unsullied peak; — 

No records hath it, of thy light pure snow, 

No armor-laden men, grown faint and weak, 

There gladly lying down while life ebbed low. 

Thy grand Columbian barriers n'er fell 

Before th' invaders' footstep, and there lies 

No shield or corselet buried in the swell 

Of thy proud stainless waters, where they rise, 

That like a quick steed, who abjures the spur, 

Boundeth the rocks among on freedom's way, 

Below the bending pine and swajdng fir. 

And the white feathery foam and dashing spray, 

Down to the fields of wheat and valley grass, 

Down to the widening shore past flowering meads. 

No fierce Thermopylae soiled any pass 

With vain, dead-hates of conquests or of greeds. 

So we are glad, but as with deepening tone 
Of low, sweet music, and of garlands flung 
Before some pale, sad cortege, that alone 
Threads a dark pathway, so have mourners sung. 

The night had come, tMons. Jovis under snow 
And the high calm's illimitable glow 
Of all the midnight heaven, — looked as w^hen 
Hannibal rested with his weary men 



■■:■ "Blows with a perfume of songs and memories, 
Blows from the capes of the past over sea to the hays of the 
present," —j^winbKrne^s Hesperia. 

t Mons. Jovis was the ancient name of Mount St. Bernard. 
A temple of Jupiter formerly occupied the site of the present 
famous monastery. 



12 THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEETH. 

Around the Temple, whose dark walls then leaned 

Against the great acclivity, half screened 

From the loud winds of Clusa, — while in sleep 

All t^e still camp, whose onward march would sweep 

O'er Lombard cities, a dread destiny, — 

Verona's — Pavia's long held siege to be. 

The King watched, when others slept, he thought 
Of the high plans his future actions wroiight. 
And at the morn, Duke Bernard's armors came 
Across St. Bernard's mount, and left its lasting name^ 
A grand reunion in the valley made, 
Each equal glorious march, a toil repaid. 
With Charles, the greatest monarch of the Franks. 
Villages, castles, towns, along the banks 
Of Alps and river on the path he went, 
Eose, not with moan of grief, or heart's lament, — 
Not as the despot on his rampant way. 
Brought they the palm branch, and the rose and bay. 
Nor were they sullen at Mons. Cinisus; 
With anthems they met him, and raised the Holy Cross. 

And here with greeting, ere he pitched his tent. 
An Envoy of the East — most stately — sent 
Loaded with presents, while eight cymbals played 
The hour in which the King his audience made. 
With brazen bells, and heralds near they came, — 
Slowly, the long advance a host proclaim. 
And standing, Haroun's envoy thus addsessed 
The mighty Emperor of all the West: 
" My voice, O, King, this hour is Haroun's will,. 
Not as to Christian, Hebrew, Moslem — still; 
But to the worth of all thy famous deed. 
This adulation is his gracious meed." 



THE LEGEND OF NONXENAVEETH. 13 

This said, liis servants, drawing near, unrolled 

Fine silks, and Talmas, made of cloth of gold; 

A curious bronze clock, with little balls 

That at each brief hour's end its signal calls,— 

The twelve displayed, and finely gilt the whole, — 

As of some magic life it seemed the soul. 

And lastly, coming in slow, silent grace, — ■ 

The guards wide parted to make clear her place, — 

A large white elephant — as wholly white 

As late-bathed plumes of swans at early Hight. 

Ah! we can tell not of her perfect jjraise, 

Taught of the sun's warm travel, all the ways. 

Endearing things they said along the line. 

She seemed to hear; and shed like beams of wine. 

A wordless answer in her eyes and mien, — 

A sacred symbol there among them seen. 

And she had for a present, a great tent 

On her soft shoulders, folded as she went. 

And bearing this she knelt before the King, 

That he might reach with hands the costly thing. 

In colors fine embroidered, flower and bird, 

iVnd startled antelopes, a fleeing herd; 

The slender spire and crescent's silver gleam. 

Worked in its fabric, as in sleep a dream. 

"This for thy war tent on the mount and plain, 

0, King of all the Lombard's, Charlemagne!" 

Thus ended the fair speech of the envoy. 

The listening King was pleased. With quiet joy 
He answered: "Tell your monarch of the East 
That in our mutual heart I love him best. 
He is as I, — he hath most rapid zeal, 
And energy as bold as that I feel ; — 



14: THE LEGEND OF NONNENWERTH. 

Magnificent designs, and mind as free, 

For these, most high regard, he holds, with me." 

At this he turned; a Syrian monk came near: 

"Sire, in thy favor wilt thou justly hear 

The journey's j^laint I make, since, sadly told, 

Are seventy thousand dinars tax in gold 

Each year at Bagdad; for a bonded sun. 

In Syria, shines the tomb of Christ upon. 

O ! in the sj)lendor of thy royal name. 

State unto Haroun that 'tis cause of blame, 

And for thy friendly care he will requite 

Unto thy Christian sons this tribute's right." 

With courteous words the monarch acquiesced, 
And glancing o'er his knights in earnest quest, 
Singled out Eoland from the X3ageant throng 
Among the beautiful most fair and strong; 
Had he such heavy brows as though the stroke 
Of Jove's long fallen bolt, lain there had broke; 
While in the beauty of his grave lijis' peace 
Love turned itself as doth sweet sounds in seas; 
Forward he came with radiance just subdued. 
His was the fervor of that quiet mood, 
As of the Spartans it is said, no sounds 
Of drum or trumpet filled their battle grounds. 
They needed not, to rouse their valor's will, 
Aught but the touch of lyre or lute's sweet thrill. 
With rested lance he bowed, touching the mane 
Of his fine charger and arose again; 
Then seemed the King to give command alone, 
But much of tender pride its undertone : 
"Canst thou, O, Eoland, find Anselmo, and 
With ninety Counts depart for Holy Land? 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWERTH. 15 

Tell the good priest that I such message send 
As you have heard ere now, unto the end,— 
This to the mighty Caliph : that he move 
His heart of mercy, for my heart of love, 
And give my Christian people, long denied. 
The freedom of the gates where Christ hath died. 
They were so long anticipated — stayed." 
The days of journey with import arrayed, — 
Each cavalier's proud grace, each lance in rest. 
Plumed helmet, visor closed, cuirass on breast. 
But while they gathered all, one rode apart, 
Not least in valor, but sad at heart. 
We shall know what he did, that ere he went 
To make a sweet farewell, when skies were blent 
With the late day's deep purple and red gold, 
And from the fields the lambs go to their fold. 
Almost inaudible his stepping steed 
That bruised the dewy perfumes of the mead, — 
Into the mountains rode he shortly then, 
Where the dark cypress waved in every glen, 
Each dun dread precipice in sombre calm 
Held the grapes ripening, while ethereal balm, 
With gifts of fire, as hearts with visions blending, 
Fed them, even from rocks, on which they grew de- 
pending 
Like webs in winter, rock to rock * enlaced. 
O'er the basaltic walls the vine stems traced 
AVhere green their garlands in the summer hung. 



■•' In summer when the vines stretch their tendrils from rock 
to rock, thev look lik'^ green garlands arranged tooniament 
the stern basaltic walls that hem in the waters of the Rhine, 
and in winter when Ihe vines and the soil are both of a d ^rk 
color, these artitirial terraces look line spiders' webs hung one 
above anotlier across the argl?s of deserted edifices.— T/i*" 
Rhine and its )Scenei-y. 



16 THE LEGEND OF XONNENWEKTH. 

Along the eddying stream their leaves had Hung, 
Great terraces of gloom, or vernal sheen, 
Above the winding river grandly seen. 



A bridge across the Nahe near Bingen stands, 
Beneath it soft waves over shining sands, 
With many arches pillared grand and old, — 
Onward from thence, the road to Neiburwald; 
Here Roland lingering rode and hastened not, 
In fancy listening to each fairy grot 
Below the little stones whose murmurs made ^ 
Indefinite strange sounds that chainless strayed: — 
These were the haunting Gnomes of Whisperthal, 
And weirdly unto him their voices call;* 
"Return, delay, O, Roland, do not pass. 
The Lorch lies in the sun, Roland, alas; 
All the dreamy day in cymar of gold, 
The lurly maiden sits where cliffs are cold, 
Swiftly her white hands in the sunset shine, 
With gleaming golden comb and tresses fine. 
Thou knowest well the lifted eyes that haunt 
Her wond'rous manifold sweet thrilling chant; 
Roland, return, delay, 0, do not pass. 
The soiinding falls are near, Roland, alas!" 

But soon to silvery beechwoods he had come. 
Where summery bee and flower with wings and hum, 
Changed the dread current of his thought's day dream, 
A fading dun perception it did seem 



■•• The WhispPF, a small tributary of the river Rhine, regarded 
by th"^' inhabitants with awf-, on account of its voiceful cadences. 
The Stone ct Lorch is not far from it, on which the Gnomes 
are supposed to sacrifice ycung ladies unless the.v are rescued. 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH . 17 

To fiu o'er anxious passion of forethought, 
With hope, and fear, and tenderness, enwrought. 
Ah! such, he mused, is the proud soul's disguise. 
Who will admit, fate takes him by surprise ; 
And we are pleased with such imaginings, 
To hold its wayward reins, to plume its wings, 
Or out of long sweet sighs to charm a strain 
For festal deep repeatings of such pain. 
Some way to wear the soul, than it is worn, 
Yet always seen the forehead, and the thorn, 
"O, I shall see her weep for this I fear. 
Thou, rose of fragrance, needeth not a tear, 
Since dewfalls nightly to thy full heart come; 
My father, dare I wish these lijDS were dumb, 
That oft with clarion deeds thy names recalled. 
How shrink they now at this sweet love appalled." 



Gone are thine ivied years, sad, lone and fleet. 
And of their things long lost, the boM^ered seat. 
Near a grey lintel where sat Hildegarde, 
The lintel there is yet time stained and marred. 
And all the lofty Keep of Ehrenfels; 
A peasant guide walks there to-day, and tells 
How many hundred years have made it old 
In those dense oaken glooms of Neiburwald. 

That freighted hour he feared, his footstep stayed 
Short of the moonlight on the open glade. 
Ah; but the interludes of thought's excess, 
Some fervor held just close to consciousness. 
Made Hildegarde perceive that he was near. 
And straight she waited, listened, saw him clear. 



18 THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 

Then hastening, but why state with any word, — 

To those who've mourned, 'tis but anguish stirred. 

To those who have not known it 'tis but fraught 

In words, with meanings pale, like statues wrought. 

Anticix)ating all, white stained tear lids. 

Whose pride's supremacy the tear forbids: 

"0, I had thought with lute and garlands, thou 

Would'st come, beloved; not, alas, as now." 

So near his restful shoulder, — timid, — yet 

Only her white hand on it lightly set. 

He kissed her with some quick, impulsive will, 

And then she leaned her head down and was still. 



O, shadowy vails foreboding, not revealed, 
It breathed in his soft accents, and was sealed 
In the firm, tearless glance of her dark eye, 
The imposing calm's restraint of agony. 
As those great slumbrous banks of Indian palm. 
Are quiet near the coming of the sea. 
Their deep roots in a reef's captivity, 
While all the Monsoon's desert laden balm 
With burning winds sweep over them utterly. 

"My dear, when I am gone, beware, Hunald, 
Along the Spanish march his deeds are told, 
And of his kinsman, Lupo, too, beware, 
He gave me once a troth, not free or fair.'" 
"Yea, sweet," she said, "resigning thee I will 
In all high faith's collectedness fulfill 
Thy love's behest each day and hour I live, 
WhiJe slow the long months pass, or long years grieve, 
Yea, sweet, I am content through bui-ning ill, 
My soul hath its completeness: Love will fill 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEBTH. 19 

Til' immortal aisles of heaven, though this earth, 
With sounding waves of sea, and clouds of dearth 
Whelm all its quivering throbs, and never pour, 
Upon its censor fires, one token more." 

And in her eyes of gentle smilingness, 
Some high resolve whose deep flush filled her heart, 
As when the sunset on the sea grows less 
To splendors gathered, ere it all depart. 
Buoyant and transient were this charming force. 
But for dominion of the mind's resource. 
Whose pause of love these governed aspects bless. 
With sweet contending powers and wielding will, 
And some faint echo of the voice: — "Be still," 
Eternal starlight, and the trembling air. 
Thou art alone forever, everywhere. 



The soft unfolding j)urple of the dawn 
Beyond the misty mounts like some vast throne 
Beyond the utmost hills, whose hamlets kept 
The previous night late vigils, and now slept; 
With day the files of burnished steel, and flame 
All musical with movement and the name 
Of fair Jerusalem ; advance and flow 
Like strong tides in deep unison — they go. 

How in high reverence were there unfurled, 
Bright banners faceward to the Eastern world; 
Behind them silence and their parting tears. 
Before them effort, and perhaps long years. 

The green shore's murm'ring current and the close 
Of each long weary day to eve's repose, 



20 THE LEGEND OF NONNEKWEKTH. 

The ridge of rock, the story vale, the plain. 

Some Gothic citadel, the vale again — 

The straggling line of horse, the strongest few 

Contending swift ahead for the first view, 

Not easy to describe, the emotions throng 

That fill the Christian breast when, after long 

And toilsome journeying, the olive shade 

Gives welcome on the slopes of Gihon's glade — 

The pools of Gihon, where a King* was crowned 

The Bard of Canticles — each storied mound 

Commands the battlements that rise aboA^e 

The long desired — the city of their love. 

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! they" said: 

Not saying more, in transport's awe dismayed 

Some wept for joy on each other's breast, 

And some the sacred earth low kneeling press'd. 

They entered by the Bethlehem gate at noon, 
When parleying with the guards had ended soon, 
And to the Latin Convent guests they came, 
With letters heralding their august fame. 

At early morn they passed the holy door. 
Where the long tides of constant ages pour 
Their trains of worshipers; the slab they kiss 
Is under hanging lamps, and polished is 
With fine and sacred keeping; waxen light. 
Of three large tapers, many feet in hight. 
In front, and at the ends — the lustrous gleam. 
Of that which lies l)elow reflects' each beam. 



■■■ SolomoiJ 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEETH. 21 

There washed was, and aunointed, they expLiin, 
The glorious body of the Lord, when slain. 

To other holy places Koland went. 
And with him prayer and silence, 'til his tent 
Was strapped for travel— to the Caliph's Court. 
When at the Convent gate blew loud and short 
A herald's bugle note. Behold! he said, 
'Tis Haroun comes himself through Gihon's glade, 
And glad, those Christian sons looked from their 

towers, 
The royal traveler distant yet some hours 
They saw; then hastening, a selected band 
Went forth to meet him — Eoland in command. 
And lo! what silver sheen 'neath azure skies 
Glitters resplendent before Koland's eyes ? 
Can he believe his sense ? A pagan hand 
Kaising the Christian standard where they stand, 
Its glorious model hung with garlands rare, 
Shook a soft perfume on the stimmer air; 
Two silver pendant chains together meet, 
Where hang three golden keys. O, sign complete," 
Ye mean the ransom ot your sacred gates — 
Your bloodless glory upon Roland waits. 
And Haroun knew, it seemed, ere all expres'd 
The pledged, devoted care that filled his breast, 
Yet will he linger 'til their camps rejoice — 
Each marble margined fount with cascade voice 
And shaded plat of olive will go hence 
With him when they have known his every sense. 



* Such was th^! impressive and princely gift of Haroun \l 
Rar.chid to Charlemagnp-thekeysof the Holy Ci'.y and the 
Christian standard. 



22 THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH, 

Yea, though a stranger; so his task was told, 
And he departed from the lands grown old. 



To follow far the paths of deadly war. 
The strife of Catalonia, fierce Navarre; 
To dream by campfires in the Cevennes, 
O: home and Hildegarde — of Love and Peace, 
"Yet shalt thou meet with Lupo, Koland, when 
Dark are the Pyrenees in every glen;" 
This said the King: "nor shall be hushed the sea 
Till all his rash affirms of wrath with me 
Are well fulfilled, — replete with dastard pain. 
Ha; that he dares contend for Acquitaine." 



Close ranged the spikes of iron pallisade, 
And yet the narrow stream its pathway made 
Down through the centre of the long defile, 
Whose steep declivities reached o'er a mile. 
Bold each sharp pinnacle — sublime and bluff, 
Oppressed with grandeur, we behold enough. 
A fortressed castle on the southern end, 
Its narrow deep-set windows gleaming, send 
Slant light into the darkness, weaving shapes, 
Their hollow, muffled veils strange beauty drapes 
Around the wild flowers and the mountain ash. 
And where the torrents o'er their barriers dash. 
All the high woods soon bristled into life — 
They come! — the Gascons to the bloody strife. 
Many, entanglec^ in the fray, once calling 
Defiance or farewell to friend or foe, [falling 

Swooned to the bottoms where the wrenched rock 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 23 

Drowned their last struggles in tlie surge below. 
The stream was red with battle, dark with death 
And soundful with the pangs of parting breath — 
A disentangled rest for foe and foe. 



" Issem, hang helmets on the toM^ers to-day, 
Perchance some pilgrim hitherward may straj^ 
In weariness t3 rest with palm and staff, ' 

Thou art not mindful of their needs by half." 
So speaking, Hildegarde in patient gloom 
Looked from the lofty windows of her room, 
And in her voice once sweetness all there was. 
The tone most over-sweet grown querilous, 
As of a falchion that is quivering thrown 
Under the rider while the fight goes on. — [close, 
And then she walked, with veil and shawl, wrapped 
Breathing the wan mists as they slowly rose 
Mid transient shadows of soft, heavy bloom. 
That made her faithful thoughts see Roland's plume, 
Albeit she did kn«)W th' engaging thought 
Out of the splendor of her fancy wrought. 
And, O, ye stars! if any feet have trod 
Upon ye, — they were things she said to God. 

He had not come that day, though now three years 
Had canceled hope's reserves, and gathered fears. 
Sometimes she wept, or with adjuring thrill. 
Implored to weep; restraint weeps not at will. 
Tears, where are you ? down in the deep heart's urn. 
And coming singly to the lids that burn 
With strained anguish? Oh! thou hast a power — 
The peace of a resigned and tender hour. 



24 THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEETH. 

No Peri ever hailed thee, boon of earth! 
With half the longing thy forbidden worth 
Comes o'er the heart whose proud rebelling eyes 
Would send thee back <all hushed where bleeding lies 
A craven mouth of grief beneath its wings — 
The refuge of barbed years— a wounded thing. 
He had not come; because a journey then 
Meant passing like a dream, — returning, when 
The long months filled to years, and the lone seas 
Brought dimly back the sails of Hope and Peace. 
The dust and lustre of wide plains at noon, 
Made lingering rest, and shade, the traveler's boon, 
And the devoted palmer's cloak and stave, 
M'ujht find his journey's end — or wayside grave. 

There is a mountain shrine — St. Koch's — where 
All sylvan grandeurs mingle with sweet prayer. 
The beechwood's verdure and the fount and thorn, 
Whose near white blossoms fall on breaths of morn, 
All gay luxuriance vvdiose genial breeze 
Goes on the sunshine to the distant seas. 
The sun's pure deeps of sapphire, and the fold 
Of lambs all gather'd, ere its last ray's gold, — 
With the rose folded eyelids of sweet tears, 
The beautiful, once only, of the years. 
There in the midst of those who offered vows 
Knelt Hildegarde with gently shaded brows, 
Over her pale hands bended to the rail, 
Only as yet, her golden hair their veil, 
Of late she whispered secret mournful things. 
Touched with redundance of love's hidden springs: 
"Lo! the Lamb lieth on the altar's stone. 
And I, O God, am here with thee alone." 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 25 

But we may tell, Avhen she had waited long, 
For pilgrim's tidings, or for minstrel's song, 
O'er the far solitudes, subdued, and vast, 
At last a day auspicious seemed; — at last, 
A day! — it may be as an almond wand, 
Where with sweet surprise, a flower is found, 
Or, like th' Arabian bee who from a rose 
Feeds, — then with venom, and not honey, goes 
To sting to madness, on the Kamsin's wind. 
When all the white, hot plains make gazing blind, 
The long untrodden cliffs two travelers climbed, 
When slow St. Roch's bell for vespers chimed. 
Their quiet converse was most earnest toned. 
Its whispered theme some subtle secret owned: 
"You watch her, and sing lays, while I explain," 
Thiis said the elder, "think of Acquitaine, 
And let no pity of your soul arise 
For wringing hands of hers, or tearful eyes." 
His shoulder marked;* his shell medallioned hat. 
Donned it, the pilgrim's garb; malice like that; 
Lo! in his eye, a fierce and dull gray light; 
Where sits the condor, bird of haughty flight, 
On rugged Andes, o'er the Pampas plains, 
Such is the spirit that such glance contains. 
Under his cloak soft flowing, mailed and strong 
Lithe limbs, and like the Torso, studied long, 
Carved shoulders of fine mould and massive grace 
These the dread beauties of his form and face. 
The gates were reached, a horn's blast sped their call. 
And welcome was tendered by the Seneschal, 



* A scatloD shell on the front of the broad brimmed hat, and 
the red crosi e-nbroidererj or braided on the left shoulder of 
the cloak dUtinguished the returned pilgrim. 



Zb THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEETH. 

Effacing trace of tremblings, hope and fear, 
With glad expectance; — what may she now hear. 
So deemed the castle maiden as with haste 
The banquet hall's full laden board she graced: 
Then, eyes of furtive guile subdued their glance, 
Looked down with seeming mild of pious trance,. 
Waiting the questions, that he knew would come 
And leaning half conealed in the warm gloom 
Of the carved oaken mantle, whose great hearth 
Threw o'er the festal board its genial mirth: — 
"And hast thou come, O, pilgrim, from lands where 
The lute, and lance, and corselet fall in prayer, 
And foremost martyrs fruitless not, — while low 
Their deep atoning hearts in torrents flow? 
Is the dread crescent in ascendance yet, 
And the red desert sun in triumph set. 
Where the unaltered cross hath lowered stood 
The share of sorrow, and the price of blood? 
And hast thou seen him, severed long from me? 
O, faithful journeyers of land and sea." 
"Lady, the King's knight, Roland, I have seen. 
Last, in the towers of Capitoline. 
We two oft watched at night, when stars grew pale,. 
The fire-flies on the banks of Arno's vale,* 
And listened to the dulcet chirping hums 



■i- The banks of the Arno on either side are flanked by 
plantations of the olive and vine, the deep b-ue green of 
the former contrasting strikingly with the light verdure of 
the vine leaves. They are planted in alternate rows; and the 
intervening soil is frequently made to yield a crop of barley. 
To\ ards evening we saw si lew flrellies, but these beautiful 
and remarkable insects do not appear to flourish in. Knrope as 
in the K-st, where they convert the whole atmosphere into a 
galaxy o' twinkling stars. Thecicidamade a prodigious chirp- 
ing by the road side: almost the whole way from Home it kept 
up an incessant noise, scarcely audible when the carriage was 
in motion, but sufficient to stun the ear the moment oi a halt.— 
JS^stes of a Wanderer— W. F. Cumming, M. D. 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 27 

Of the Cicada, iu the barley blooms, 

Where the dark olive and the bright pale vine, 

Luxuriant, alternate, interwine; 

Far he had come; his valiant mission o'er. 

When at the Tiber's mouth a rested oar 

Brought him late orders for a lengthened stay; 

Stern, but devoted, was his calm dismay." 

"I know," she whispered, "and a holier tie 
His pain and peril thus doth sanctify." 

"Brought him late orders," he continued, "now 
Be strong, 0, lady, I must tell thee how 
Not with a vanquished eagle, he would come 
Back to the hamlets of his mountain home." 

"Ba strong; O, yes! for I have chastened wall 
Ere while my heart's surmises — thou may'st tell 
Th' the unfaltering deed, — if with his royal right 
He died— then, I have lived, as infinite." 

Let not repeatings of the guileful speech 
Through all her anguish its whole meanings reach. 
Boland was at Eome, that recorded day, 
The shrines were robed, for it was blessed May, 
In all the bannered streets the poimlaee 
Bode in dense splendor, 'twas a day of grace. 
The "Greater Litany's" sweet, solemn close 
By many chorests chanted, grandly rose, 
Then the Chief Pontiff turned, and raised his hand 
Tranquil in blessing or in mild command;— 
'Twas never known, for through the line there came 
In hurried breaths and flashing eyes of flame, 
Wild cries of blood; — a panic seizing all, 



28 THE LEGENP OF NO^iNENWEBTH. 

For Paschal aud Campnlus, voices call,* 
Turbulent, traversing each open space, 
The lances' streamers flash, and interlace, 
Hatred had slumbered, but it was not dead, 
On unsuspecting kindness it had fed, 
Too trusting Leo, — close — insatiate — 
Arose its deadly cries, — "down!" "mutilate!" 
With coward, trembling hands — for crime is fear — 
They bore him prostrate: "Hold, ye dastards, hear 
Roland's that voice; — they halt to hear him speak. 
The glow of his quick wrath hath dyed his cheek: 
"Ye that with sacrilege would quench the light 
In those pale, bleeding brows, defend your right; 
I come! conspirators, vengeful, I come — 



=Th9 hatred which Campnlus and Puschal, the two disappoint- 
ed aspirants to the f apacy had conceived against the more suc- 
cessful Leo, nad slumbered, but was not extinct. Tlae ecclesiu?ti- 
cal situations held bj' th e two factions of Romans and the lavor 
with which they were regarded by the unsuspecting Leo him- 
self, gave them many opportunities of revenge. 'Ihey lioped 
by a mixtiiie of boldness and art t" escape the consequence of 
their crime. The moment tJ.ey chose for the perpetration of 
their design was while the Pope, attended by all tiie clergy and 
followed by the populace, rode through a part of the cit> per- 
forming what they called the C4reater 1 I'^any. Pascal and 
Canipulus were placed dose to the perso'i of the Chief Pontiff, 
and are said to have received from him som ■ new mark of 
kindness on that very morning. All passed tranquilly till the 
line of the procession approached the monastf^ry of St. Stephen 
and St. Sylvester, and even then, the banners an^i cro.sses, the 
clerks nnd chorists which preceded were permitted lo advance 
till suddenly as the higher clergy began to traverse the space 
before the building, armed men were seen mingling among the 
people. The march of the procession was obstructed. A panic 
seized both the populace and the clergy, all lied but Campolus, 
Pascal and their abettors, and Leo was left alone in the 
hands of the conspirators. 'J he Pontiff was immediatelj' as- 
sailed and ca-^t upon theground, and with eager and trembling 
hands— for crime is generaly fearful— the trailers proceedf d to 
attempt the extiictioii of his sight and the mutilation of his 
tongue. It is possable tha^ the struggles of their unfortunate 
victim disappointed the strokes of the conspirators, and that 
his exhaustion from terror, exertion and loss of blood deceived 
them into the b-^liif that they had more than accomplished 
their purpose; dispersing the moment the deed was committed, 
the chief conspirators iefc the apparently lifeless body of the 
prelate to be dragged into the monastery of St. Erasmus.— *S'e« 
Lift? of Chalemagne by G. P. E. Jamfg. i:^q. 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 29 

Say; are those pallid lips forever dumb; 

These mute, mild lips, that called you brothers long, 

There in the dust low lying for your wrong." 

Scene that was terrible — men desperate, — 

They dared not stop, sheathed in the heart of hate, 

A moment; — and the glimmering dust arose 

With ring of helmets, and with javelin blows. 

There Eoland's violet mantle floating high 

Cleaved a free pathway where the foremost die. 

"Match ye with this," he cried, "your plots of harm," 

And fast and true fell his decending arm. 

As tremor of faint stars o'er fallen snow, 

Shuddered the jeweled helm on his brow. 

So damp with ardor's haste — so pale with zeal. 

Appalling triumph!— this didst thou reveal. 

The almost lifeless Leo then was borne 
To St. Erasmus; — all the night till morn. 
Each gallant enemy, and zealous friend, 
Watched,— holding counsel, — life and death impend. 
But ere three days had passed the King had come 
With speed, — encamping near the walls of Rome; 
There Roland's tendered sword, the first glad gift. 
That charmed his smiling eyes, whose heavenward lift 
At lighted altars o'er that sword austere, — 
Yea, wept — in hallowed love, in pride and fear. 



Come back where never changed, the mists that hung 
Moving like censors, that are softly swung 
Upon the mountains, or like robes, and feet, 
That it was said, are beautifiil to meet, 
Where Hildegarde with white enfolded hands 
On her still lap there sitting, — and blue bands 



30 THE LEGEND OF NONNENWERTH. 

Of soft silk ribbon on her shining hair, 

That with her soulful eyes their radiance share, 

Wholly endowed with contemplation's sense. 

She felt that love was prayer — and prayer was love 

intense. 
Dark was her soiU, but like the falcon's flight. 
That riseth startled from the dews of night, 
Assuaging fear, with lofty thoughts like stars, 
That even unto hallowed death unbars 
All the sails burning and the bays like lire. 
The sight of shore to the wrecked hope's desire. 
Proverbial love ! — thou 'rt known by many a name, 
But thou didst come to her, with these thy claim. 
In dreamlike harmonj^ that had become, 
Her full heart's patience as with laden hum, 
On slumbrous summer winds, the voj^ager 
Starts from the troubled rose with wings astir. 
"Thy calm sweet sanctity, O, Nonnenswerth! 
It is now the chosen peaceful spot on earth 
Where I can bear to live," she musing said, 
"0, I shall bind my brows as one lain dead. 
Where thy majestic bells at eventide 
Along the waters of the pure lake glide. 
Thy chimes will seem to call, Eoland! Eoland! 
Sentence and prophecy, I will understand, 
Yea I like the watched dove, I will lift thee, thought, 
Out of the realms that on earth are sought. 
Eternal purpose! serene thou'lt be fulfilled 
Forever irrevocable, strongly willed, 
Nothing to expiate — sacrifice alone — 
Love's truest offering when its will is done." 



Ah, me; the fleeting months whose veil was white, 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEETH, 31 

No tender last reprieve did them deliglit, 

Only the curving lines grew quivering deep, 

Where citadels of feeling sloftlj'' sleep, 

On the lip's pure rose — the brow's Madonna grace — 

With all that heaven may seek, and earth efface. 

Alas! the return along the peopled shore [more. 
Of Roland — the sweet welcome he would meet no 
Alas ! for the day that on the breeze was borne 
The blast rung sweet and loud from one clear horn; 
Maidens were singing, with garlands they come, 
But why there too were tears — why were stern lips 

dumb ? 
Issem, whose answers were low, sad, and brief; 
How can the deadly dread that words control, 
Make molten bareness of life's one goal ? 



Like a statue beside his steed, he stood, 
And felt if he'd die that hour, 'twere good. 
Then low on the sable mane like lead, 
Dropped the utter strength of his proud young head. 
Let us — 0, let us think, that she never knew 
How truly he lived, and how fondly true. 



There was feast at the board, there was welcoming. 
With the bards and the guests and the noble King, 
But for one who had wandered out alone, 
A minstrel chanted this low sweet tone : 

Never on earth 
To meet any more, but to live apart. 
With each passing day like a veil o'er the heart — 



32 THE LEGEND OF NONNENWEKTH. 

Oh, never to feel the exquisite soul 

Like the bird set free to its windward goal. 

Never on earth! 

Never on earth! 
Though the light go out of the west each day, 
Full of harvested hours, and the season's May, 
Coming and going a cycle between, 
Dividing sad hearts and that which has been, — 

Never on earth! 

It might be yet 
The change of a bitterness turning sweet. 
A life with its greatest crow:n at your feet. 
Might your dear hands fall in their own loved way ; 
Ah those lips are dumb, and those still eyes say 

We inust forget, 

Living, as dead, — 
Nay; — though never may come replies 
To the faithful heart wearing only sighs, 
Twilight shall fall into purple haze. 
Mornings shall long fill their golden days, 

Forgetting not. 
Though forever far, beyond portals pale, 
A sworn abiding and sweet avail. 
Forbodings are clear; — when hath hoj^e not striven 

Forgetting not. 
With the burning stars and his lonel}^ mood. 
The singer then left him, — understood. 

For he journeyed to pray at the shrines of Rome, 
But builded that tower when again at home, 
For they said she is given to God, my son; 
To God, — be content, — let his will be done; 
Nay; for we cannot, — the veil is black. 



THE LEGEND OF NONNENWERTH. 33 

So he buildecl that tower when he journeyed back, 
And the walls of Nonnenswerth still are seen 
From Rodenberg's height where the turrets lean. 
Nature, who deviates not her way, 
Is still as she was in the olden day, 
Still the rays of morn upon E.olanseck, 
O'er the Lake of Nonnenwerth softly break. 
And the windows of Nonnenwerth now grown old. 
Are yet to be seen from that jDinacle bold, 
Where a faithful heart lived and wept alone, 
In the anguish of time that is dead and gone. 
Rascida Vallis, is far and fair 
And the Casque de Roland is blooming there. 
When you gather its creamy and crimson bell. 
Sit down, and hear what the maidens tell. 
There's the Breche de Roland, its fissure is deep; 
There's the Chapel, where long, he lieth asleep. 






LAMENT OF LEONORA. 



AN ANSWER TO THE "LAMENT OF TASSO.' 



[Published by request.] 

ARGUMENT. 

J. H. Wiffen,one of the best English biographers and trans- 
lators of Tasso, disproves pointedly the many asseverations of 
Serassl. who wrote in politic deference to Maria Beatric" D' 
Este, wife of tne Arch Dulie Ferdinand, of Austria. To the 
conventional and heartless prejudices of this lady the love of 
Lenoraand Tasso was a theme altogether distasteful, and on 
having rehearsed to her an opera founded on a comedy of 
Goldoni's she had the name of Torquato Tasso changed to that 
of Lope de Vega, observing that it was not very respectful to re- 
call in the presence of a princess of the house of Este the name of 
Tasso— a man who had behaved so ill to that illustrious family. 
This is indisputable proof, in connection with the words of 
another writer, "that ^erassi seems throughout to be laboring 
with a secret, or a least with a persuasion, which he is at a loss 
to conceal. Our author, Whiflfen, admits "How far Lenora cor- 
responded to the ardent love of Tasso must ever remain an 
inscrutable mysterj'," He observes: "I am ready to believe 
that Lenora might be at all times on her guard to prevent the 
testimonies of her peculiar esteem from being remarked by the 
jealous Courtinwhicn she lived, and that she was often induced 
to ciil up a passing frown in order to baffle observation or to 
mitigate presumption, she must have been well aware of the 
precipice on which she stood \n the indulgence of any marked 
partiality towards a dependent of the Court, when she 
had refused the hands of princes; when she called to mind the 
imprisonment in which hei mother had been consigned on re- 
nouncing Catlio icism and finally, Alphonso's pride of rank 
and bitter persecution of those who once in reality offenried him. 
These remembrances, tu say nothing of the p'Udeutial con- 
siderations suggested by womanly reserve must have induced 
her to act with extreme caution in bestowing her encourage- 
ments. As to the imputed indiff^^rence which the Princess is 
supposed to have exhibited for the misfortunes of Tasso, and 
the eflort she made to obtain his liberty, with the conclusion 



LAMENT OF LEONOEA. 35 

tbat some woQld thence deduce that her heart was never in- 
terested in his behalf: "This," observes Foscolo, with great 
truth, "is one of the negative arguments founded "^n a hypoth- 
esis that mav be easily destroyed by a thousand others equally 
plausible. Was not the Princess anxious to avoid her own 
ruin? In taking too warm an interest for tb.e poet did she not 
risk destroying herself without saving him? A poet who dared 
to love a Princess of Este and a Princess who had encouraged 
him were, in the view of Italian statesmen, scandals which 
could not even be spoken by any without rendering them 
guilty of high treason. But on what grounds do these sup- 
positions rest; what proofs are there *^hat Leonora did not exert 
her utmost influence to lighten his calamities and terminate 
the horrors of his captivity, his continuance in prison? Nothing 
is more likely than that he, whose mind was rankling with re- 
sentment, who.'ie bosom was proof alike to the pathetic appeals 
ot the po3t and the entreaties of sovereign princes, would turn 
a deaf ear even to a sister's intercessions. That she did inter- 
cede for him i sufficiently clear from a remark in his Can- 
zone to the Princesses "Chi mi guido"— What star guided me 
hither: 

"And who, alas, when I for freedom grieved, 

Promised me hope, yat still that hope deceived." 
All the presumptions of probability and all the arguments of 
reason concur to answ .r, Leonora. Such are the opinions of 
Wififen and of Foscolo, whom he quotes. Bvron, also, who 
turned when at Ferrara with more interest to the prison cell 
of Tasso in the hospital of St. Anna than he did to the monu- 
ment of Ariosto,s33ms to be convinced of Leonora's responsive 
love; even while he makes Tasso deprecate her reserve in the 
famous "Lament" he expresses the existence of some secret 
hope as witness the following: 

"I told it not, I breathed it not: it was 

Sufficient to itself— its own reward, 

And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas! 

Were punished by the silentness of thine; 

A)irl yet I did not venture to repine." 
The italics are introduced ia the present quoting to show 
Byron's accredited opinion that Tasso was convinced in his secret 
hopes, whatever mav have been the expression of his discon- 
tent at the adversity of circumstances. And again, he makes 
Tasso say: "And thou, Leonora; thou who wert ashamed that 
such as I could love— tuho blushed to hear—." Byron in his 
researches of old Italian manuscripts and libraries had p'^r- 
haps abetter chance than either Wiffen or Foscolo of forming 
and opinion on this subject. In the above lines he expresses 
tha,ti)ec}diar fear whirh accompanies the responsive love of a 
worn n so placed as Leonora, without which there would be 
indifference and not love, and in the presence of which there is 
love, tremblinp and true. Again, a few lines lower down, so 
sure d')es Tasso seem to be of Leonora's suffering in common 
with h''s own th t he incites Leonora to go and reproach her 
brother with their mutual misery — 

"Go tell thy brother that my heart untamed 

By grief, years of weariness, and it may be 

A taint of thac he would impute to nae, 

From long infection of a den like this. 

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss. 

Adores thee still ;-an'^l add— that when the towers, 

And battlemen.s which guard his joyous hours, 



36 LAMENT OF LEONOEA. 

Of banquet, (Tance.and ravel, are forgot, 

Or left un tended in a dull repose, 

This— this, sliall be a consecrated spot. 

But thou — v/ieii all that birth and beauty throicit 

Of mar/ic round thee is e.rtinct.—shalt have 

One half the laurel that o'ershades my grave.'^ 
This prophecy is now Incontrovertable, not less from the pen 
of Byron than from the sorrowful forethought of Tasso, and 
since so many have tendered sj mpathetic tribute to Tasao in 
this:— the following lines are in the same spirit inscribed by 
their author to the memory of Leonora of Este: 



lE tliou at rest, where silence folds her mug, 
M}^ dove; in "clefts of rock," by strange seas 
broken ;* 

I speak or smile; I dream awhile, or sing, 
And yet to thee, send never word, or token. 

Say, love, they're censor fires, with lid upraised; 

Or Druid wands, with mystic leaf, and meaning. 
He was not spoken to, whom angels praised; 

His throne is veiled, whereon are seraj)hs leaning. 

But I will know thee; in the dreamy close 

Of music, and the drench of water flowers, 
And in the high dome's imperial repose. 
When day is turning into twilight hours. 

And, oh, when sobs break on some midnight sleep. 
Then, love its tryst shall keep. 

What though with pealing glory of renown 

My dark bereavement yet should crowned be, 
Still would I gaze far up to where thy throne 
Is out of reach; oh, brow that beams on me. 
Some earthward angel's pinion widely spread. 
Its glory on thee shed. 



*"My dove in *he clefis of the rock, in the hollow places of 
the wall, show me thy face."- >S'Qiomon's Canticles. 



LAMENT OF LEONOKA. 37 

Oh, tender eyes of rarely templed thought 

Avails it now to breathe o'er thee this pain, 
Hath thy sonl easements whose deep stillness caught 
The radiance of strange hours that pale and wane 
Till one might deem their marble chaplets not 
The flowers a sulptor wrought. 

Speak, I would say to thee, but that I fear 

I could not bear this weight of yearning; then 
Too dear thou should'st become, too doubly dear, 

And such a prince of woe, my Lord of men, 
How could I bear it so ? — this life apart. 

With but the voiceful linger of thy breath 
On some chance hours — thine eyes fire all my heart. 

Till days are misery and love is death. 

Alas! that I might say, make not this pain; 

My slumbrous soul is half contented now. 
Think ! the world's sentence would but call it ' 'stain" — 

My kiss, too happy, on thy lover brow. 
And yet, pride, falling from its stronger morn, 

Over an altar of false majesty, 
Would dare in clustered roses any thorn. 

To pierce the wayward feet that strayed to thee. 



I do believe thee. Face, so kingly wise. 

Turned on me fondly, almost deified; 
I do believe thee; raised are drooped eyes 

To question, if for this, was love denied — 
To question, if for this, was Love long tried, 

That herein I may find it, changed, transposed. 
Life's marvel doubted, till the wounded side 

All of its mystery and truth disclosed. 



38 LAMENT OF LFONOEA. 

Deity, Doubt, Shame, Life — all stand c®nfessed: 

Sorrow, so silent for its just rei^roof ; 
Faith's late sad surety, that had been thrice blessed, 

Had it believed, and trusting, stood aloof. 
Speak to me, love. Though silent, I adore thee; 

E'en when I do not lift mine eyes to meet 
Thy looks, so veiled. 0, sacred shrine before me, 

Silence is peace — yet were assurance sweet. 

Speak to me, then, when near me at some fall 

Of night, upon the lonely, lonely sea, 
When thy dear presence is so near that all, 

Its majesty of stillness, shadeth me, 
Till I could kneel, in my excess of feeling, 

And voiceless happiness, close to thy side. 
For the dumb answer of the bliss, revealing, 

How I had hoped, and had not been denied. 



Oh, /would speak to thee, if that I might; 

Oh, wilt thou hear me, in this voiceless pain 
I am alone; and the still pall of night 

Is over all things, and the deep low refrain 
Of spirit music, on the wandering wind, 

Haunts earth's broken places, like thoughts of thee 
Seeking for rest within my heart to find, 

Only the billows of a troubled sea. 
Ah, dost thou make this sweet and heavy thought, 

For the heart most overweary, one deepest sigh, 
That finds its echo mid the things unsought. 

Because of their deep drexd; ah! mournfully 



LAMENT or LEONOEA. 39 

'Twill hover round thee ever,* a music made 

To thy soul's symphony, the unseen thrones 
Of- heaven, their splendors burn and fade 

In lonely human hearts, with none to own; 
Oh! that thou wert near me, that I might weep 

Upon thy bosom and be not afraid ; 
Oh, then methinks that I could calmly sleej), 

And yet, the very thought's with dread arrayed 
And yet there is no Peace but in the still sweet deep 

Of thy gentlest eyes, — there fond fancy leads 
And I am quiet, while time unbroken 

Wreaths me a garland till the moments glide 
To where falls the real; and the beauteous token 

Is borne a^ay, where I may see it never, 
"With the lost life beats of the heart's wild fever. 



Oh this is over me, as mystic sleep 

That is not earthly sleep, or earthly waking, 
Where voices whisper soft, and dark eyes weep, 

And lips grow pearly o'er the heart's deep breaking 
Though I have said forget me — it is well 

Though thou hast said forget me, as its knell 
That we should never meet, and never part 

To risk that anguish, where a tide may swell 
Its agony of waves to each o'er beating heart 

Full of thy deep, deep love are the waters w^ail 
And so I fear not, though it mournful be, 

For in the mist that shrouds thee like a vail. 



* No po'^'^pr in death conld fear onr names apart, 
As none in life coiUd rend thee from my heart. 
Ye^. Leono'-a, it shall be our fate 
To be entwined forever— but too late 

—Bijvon's Lament of Tasso. 



40 LAMENT OF LEONOKA. 

I see the fair hand raised o'er Gallilee; 

And then I know he said that this should be ; 
But when thy voice told me I should forget, 

And thy dear hand silenced hope's sweet key, 
I hushed the thrill that murmured with regret 

And made my soul obey thee silently. 
But oft it wakes with haunting voices fraught 

That whisper e'er of thee '^Forget me not.'" 



Thou art not doomed to ever be forgot, 

Yet hast thoii said to me a low good-by 
With trembling words whose meaning was unsought 

Of the sweet spirit in thy heart, or eye, 
And thou didst leave me with a lingering look 

Like that the soul doth make in varjdng dreams 
Vainly to realize I am forsook, 

And yet I am remembered like the streams 
That trill their mournful music on the ear. 

Listless lying where the woodland teems 
With unblessed worlds of mysteries as fair 

As the peaceful soul of the dreamer lying there. 
But I am happy, heavy though it be, 

To dwell on earth of thy dear love unblessed, 
For haunting melodies do promise me 

A light in thy dear ej^es I ne'er have guessed. 
When all earth's shadows shall in quiet rest 

Morning and night upon each pulseless breast. 

I dreamed of thee, methought a temple fair 

Was o'er us, and its lighted aisles were teeming, 

And pale and sad thou wert standing there 

In a dense throng but to my fond eyes seeming 



LAMENT OF LP^ONOKA. 41 

Noble in thj^ proud grace, as I know thou art, 

How trembled my glad heart in my dreaming. 
Thou didst not see me, and I reached a dais 

On which stood others whom I did not know; 
Soon fire swept round us, and the fearful blaze 

Undermined the frail timbers neath our feet. 
Then came to thee sight of my danger, and the woe 

That swept thj^ fair brow, — to my heart was sweet; 
No word passed thy lip; — a silent look 

Gave me all the meaning of its paleness. 
But though the hope of life my heart forsook. 

Born of that hopelessness — thine acknowledged love, 
Thatlook of thine, death's joy, a life might never prove 

I did not perish and I tried to win thee. 
And rocked my feet upon the swaying pile. 

But many glided in the throng between thee 
And where lone I stood, gazing down the aisle 

My eyes still saw thy sweet Ups' agony comprest 
And I awoke still yearning to thj^ silent breast. 

Why didst thou come before me with thy radiant brow? 

Blest were my eyes gazing on its light. 
But weeping bitterly my heart's voice low 

Claimed from me some lost forgotten right, 
I dare not think or feel what this may be, 

Life's hope, and death's indifference be there, 
I dare not look in the abyss where lie 

Those two things; — gone were hope and prayer, 
I could not see my God! for O, 1 fear. 

That is a cave rock bound which he forgot, 
Where the mad surges lash the rocks so drear, 

That chaos dirges ever, — he is not. 
Oh, I dare not listen, dismaved I turn awav. 



42 LAMENT OP LEONORA. 

No rest! no rest! for hand, or foot, or heart, 
Turmoil and strife mnst ever be their sway, 

I ask ye winds, which gains the victDr's part, 
Eternal life, or Lethe's unseen deep. 

You moan and moan, but still you answer not. 
Still unrevealed that pale mystic sleep — 

Shall the heart's beatings be all then forgot, 
Oh, no! I cannot give them up! — their poignant love 

Is all too torturing, to quivering sweet, 
Their living wild unrest immortal prove 

The soul that makes the heart thus mildly beat. 

Oh, I remember when my proud heart reigned 

Like an immortal dove within my breast, 
But now long struggling, her heavy wing hath strained, 

Since o'er the waves, long sought; — no place of rest, 
A passionate appeal I make to thee : 

Should that moment come, when all soul worn 
The dark waters make come rushing over me. 

Oh give me death with that sweet peace whose morn 
Will rise in unknown splendor o'er the sea, 

Hide me in its waves ere the night of scorn 
Should set around me by one look from thee 

When my eyes close upon thy bosom's deep, 
Oh! kiss them, forever; to eternal sleep! 



For thy love's sake, Tasso, for thy love's sake. 
And for the clos'd behests of waiting years, 

Kept in the patience of a tried heart mourning, 
Under the arches of stalactite tears. 



LAMENT OF LEONORA. 43 

Think of me, darling, when thy soul's deep hushes 
Grow wakeful in the length of some slow hour 

Between the midnight and the opal gushes, 

When the dawn pleads with night and day for power. 

Think of me, dark, in the clime divided [come, 

From spring and summer, where sweet tides ne'er 

And say. Ah, me, sweet heart, from mine elided, 
I love you yet, my love, though grief is dumb. 

When thou art silent; for the sharp precision 
Of catching some dear memory gliding by. 

Perhaps; dear love, such is my hour of vision, 
Thy spirit comes so near, and says, '"Tis I." 

Believe me, darling, when thy gladness, paling. 
Seems more than weary, like a mournful river, 

The curse-born Eden of the unavailing 

Thinks of the gates again, where angels shiver. 

Take them — the roses — on the lone heath blowing 
And i)ut them where thy breast is warm and white. 

And when they die there, love, thou may 'st be knowing 
They're but sweet allegories of a blight. 

Thou'lt find the passion of thy lips, which break 
Upon their leaves, and pulsing, beat apart 

With thrills of thy soft breath, as when a lake 
Is stirr'd, as once you said, was stirr'd my heart. 

Near where we stood, the dark full summer boughs 
Met over us in arches green and grand — 

I was forgetful of the wasting glows 

That burned their life within thy cheek and hand. 



44 LAMENT OF LEONOEA. 

Sweet censors! that no earth may gather from 

Their spirit meaning any fire of dust; 
The stone was rolled away ere morning come. 

And watchers lie as dead before their trust. 

What care that nothing shelters that lone head 
From falls of dew that damp each heavy tress. 

Whose temples fail to coolness, that were fed, 
To fever by thy glances' tenderness. 

M.y feet were in the dust that should be sere, 
Over that head, ere heard those words of thine, 

How near thy heart was, yet, "He had not where 
To lay" it, who had earth and heaven for shrine. 

What care then, if the barren surge were spread 
Over it, dirgeless, still, without thy voice, 

To break the turbid waste where tempests shed 

Their wrath's vain triumph for that one sweet choice. 

Mind me not; though my head may not any cover. 
From winds and stars, tell me no more, because 

A soft, warm hand in seeming falleth over 
A forehead claimless; a dear hand of loss. 

I dared its touch, ihy hand, I reached for it. 

Fearing the glow, the jiressure's deep strong thrill. 

And yet, would God; it held me infinite. 

Through every pulsing tribute of Life's will. 

Dayspring of dreams, burn oft for thee, and ever. 
It seems, as thou art bending o'er me, here. 

Thy mouth's intense sweet sigh, its flush of fever. 
And, oh; the arms, that draw me, near and near. 



LAMENT OF LEONOKA. 4;i) 

Alas ! w-ild dream ; and heart of wild unrest, 

Loose life, I pray thee, from between thy throes, 

My lover! oh, my lover! on thy breast, 

Pain, shame and raptnre, could their bonds unclose. 

Too well I know thee vain, deep kindling thought, 

In thy devotedness I'm doomed to be 
Like to the coral fane that nereids wrought, 

A tempted labor, and an agony. 

Forget me then, forget that tortured wail, 

That mirage of regret that rose afar, 
For it the aisle of founts hath no avail. 

Nor phunes of peace, nor light of vesper star. 

Take them away — an infinite sweet tone 

Keep thee till soft grass bendeth in the spring. 

Over me lowly, light and windward blown, [thing." 
Then say, "Dear head, thou'rt crowned with everj'-- 

Oh, be not sad; if never more again 

By soft- winged verse or sign thy love I move 

Too much to weep, and sutler — its refrain 
" To sufier and to weep " — this were to love. 

Too much of tears and strife were its dear cost, 
Till heart on heart their quest fall tremblingly, 

To break, to beat, till heav'u and peace were lost; 
This cross is veiled, beloved! So let it be. 



Farewell, dearest! hush thy loving heart. 

Whose silver lyre is beating that bright shore. 

Beyond my heart's low sigh, where deep winds start 
And bear the soft waves to the strand once more. 



46 LAMENT OF LEONOEA. 

How can I bear it; all the dark, deep meaning 
That droops beside thy spirit ? Had it been 

In the white flush of young life's bright beginning, 
Ere blame had scorched it, or name called it sin, — 

Thy soul's sweet whisper, through my being sweeping, 
The anthem that on life is longest, deepest; 

Oh, had it been before the time of weeping, 
And ere this dumb regret its vigil keepest, — 

How had my heart not stopped to fear or ponder. 

How had it then, unbound, knelt at thine own, 
Learning the colors in thine eyes' sweet wonder. 

And gath'ring life's deep joy from one sweet tone. 

How had I loved thee as thou should'st be loved; 

How had I waited for each doubtful thrill, 
That glance, or voice, or touch of thine had proved 

Through all the glad life, at thy strong life's will. 

How had the troublous heart o'erful with yearning, 
Been given, beat by beat, beneath thy breast, — 

A tide gone seaward, to its deep returning. 

The while thine eyes, like stars, beheld me blest. 

But hush, O heart, before the thought thou darest. 
And count the links of chains and steps of time, 

But do not count the heart beats, which thou f earest, 
And do not call thy tenderest records crime. 



^i»g5^ 






VICTOIi NO IB. 



[The tragic death of this noble young Frenchman will be re- 
membered, bavins: occurred at the outbreak uf the recent 
Franco Prussian war. He was shot on the doorstep of a house 
where he had just delivered a lettf-r into the hands of Napo- 
leon's nephew. The treacherous recipient thus taking the lite 
of his trustful visitor on the threshold of his own residence. 
He was shortly to have been married to a beautiful and esti- 
mable lady who in the midst of her ov n laa^entable desolation 
had to mercifully make her appearance on a balcony to quiet 
the rage of the populace against his murderer.] 



?fe)IS breast was bared with its purple wound, 
)^jt And beneath his brow with a gleam profound, 
Like a Paynim lance, transfixed and bright. 
Was the sign of his splendid soul's strong light; 

No shadow had fallen there. 
It came, with the softness a hushed tread hath, 
And voices suppressed from a vengeful wrath; 
A pale light gleamed from a ladder's steep; 
'Twas a simple omen whose tryst might keep, 
Far more than a people's prayer. 



48 VICTOR NOTE. 

When on round upon round the heights they gain, — 
There arose the chant of a sweet refrain, 
'Twas the Marseillaise; on each lip 'twas loud, 
For Victor Noir in his bloody shroud 

Lay dead in Paris that day; 
And a child came near, that his eyes might see 
How deadly the "hurt" in its majesty. 
" Let me take his hand," said the tender child; 
Strong hearts grew restless with anguish wild, 

And stern eyes turned away. 

The people were roused, and many were armed. 
Up to la Valleta the concourse swarmed, 
Boys, with not a line on their temples' light; 
Men's hearts surged hot, that might bleed that night, 

On the stones of a barricade. 
Oh, not since the day that at Notre Dame, 
The tri-color shone like an oriflamme; 
On the tower's height o'er the startled guard, 
It proclaimed that the danger was near and hard — 

Was there e'er such a scene displayed. 

But lo! for her sake, 'in the sable, bowed. 
With her lovelj^ hair like an amber cloud, 
Down by her sweet face, that was Parian pale. 
Whose white calm brought o'er the angry wail, 

A hush, like a pulseless sea. 
They parted each side, to a living aisle, 
And the people stood for a weary while, 
As they carried him slowly, like one asleep. 
Their hearts so full that they could not weep : 

Thus they moved, all silently. 



VICTOR NOIK. 49 

Two hundred thousand, along the street, 
Yet their hearts pulsate with a single beat, 
And the chant went slow where the mourners led, 
To the quiet rest of the honored dead, 

With plume-draped funeral car. 
Oh, the brother and friend, just heaven, hear: 
" But yesterday he was so bright and dear," 
Strained hearts repeat, and the heaving throng 
Bears the murmur on, full, deep and strong — 

"Vengeance for Victor Noir!" 

Not banners, or stars, or lilies of France, 
On the cortege gleamed from the long advance, 
But they who bore him all loved him well. 
And their burdened steps beat a measured knell. 

As they neared the wood of Boulogne. 
And there, at the grave, with adjuring will. 
From a heavenward eye and a sworn hand's thrill. 
Like the stifled gush of a simoon's birth. 
Was the murmur borne to the ends of earth. 

Make our vengeance, God, thine own! 



"^^ 



TORTESA AND MURILLO. 



" Whosoever shall deny me before men." 
[A story is told of Miirillo which finely illustrates the power 
of truth and genius in sundering the bonds of adverse circum- 
stances: Muri Ho had a mulatto slave, whom he employed in 
grinding his colors and performing the menial servicps of the 
studio. The students were sometimes annoyed at finding their 
work had been meddle'] with, wlien they entered the studio 
in the morning; and as the touches which their pictures re- 
ceived through the night were superior to their own, thej 
superstitiously believed that some s'lpernatural agency was at 
work, and they charged the mulatto, who slept in the studio, 
to keep strict watch. This he promised to do, but what was 
their surprise one morning on observing a head of Venus, 
which their master had left upon his easel unfinished, com- 
pletely perfected. »nd in a Btyle superior t > anything Murillo 
had ever done. The master was astonished, and charged his 
pupils with meddling with his work. This »hey all positively 
denied: and poor 'J'ort sa, the mulatto, was sternly com- 
manded to tell all that had passed in the studio during his night- 
wachings. At first the leriified boj' was silent, but at last he 
f-11 upon Lis knees, begg^^d his master's pardon and confessed 
that the work ■» as his own. He had heard the instruciions 
given to the pupils, and profitted by them unobserved. !)ia 
mament the countenance of Murilli> was changed, and lifting 
np the astonished boy, charged him to ask any tavor, audit 
should be gran;ed. Tort<^sa trembled, half doubting the sin- 
cerity of his master, bu^ at last he found courage to sav, "The 
liberty of my father." This was granted, butdeath early closed 
the career of him who gave such exalted evidence of genius.] 

M^(OKTESA ground the colors for Murillo; 
^^ Tortesa was a boy, a gold mulatto; 
^ A genius fervid as ihy heart, O billow, 
A tryst with thy forever, Thallatta I 



TOETESA AND MUKILLO 



51 



The students wearing robes made note, but lightly, 
Of him, his menial service, faithful all. 

Fair days were passing and with sunsets brightly, 
Italian studios were beautiful. 

For long the students wondered, in the morning, 
What hand with perfect touch, their pictures made 

Superior! some grace of new adorning 
Put over like a star, where one was laid. 

They said unto each other, something surely 
Worketh in watchful night with perfect skill, 

This mystery! for done most fair and purely, 
These lovely things beyond our own good will. 

And then one said: " Tortesa, here thou sleepest. 
Arise to-night, and watch and hold thy Peace, 

And see who cometh when the hour is deepest." 
Tortesa watched— the still stars of Venice, 

And saw the master's work — a head of Venus, 
Not half complete, when left the night before— 

His trust was deep as sweet wells in Sahnas, 
His heart struck like a dipped gondola oar. 

Murillo, seeing at the morn 'twas added 

To things made perfect, said, "I charge you all, 

Which one will own to this ?" Then some evaded, 
And some denied, on some did silence fall. 

Till, lo ! the silent slave, sternly commanded, 
Knelt down, confessing with a bended face, 

"I heard thee at closed doors, holding, faint handed. 
My heart near where thy words had pleasant ways." 



bZ TOETESA AND MUEILLO. 

" Ah! didst thou?" said Murillo, Ask some favor, 
AVhile holding thee to heart, I love and hold; 

Where utmost is my hoj^e, thy least endeavor 
Falleth, like Indus waters, over gold." 

Tortesa, looking up, half doubting, trembled, 
But finding courage, said the words that live, 

Long understood, where'er, wherein dissembled, 
"My father's liberty, oh, Master, give !" 




SONGS OF IB EL AND— 1798. 



'Unequaled they engage in thf battle, 
The foreigners and the gael of Tara; 
Fine Jinen shirts on the race of Conn. 
And the strangers one mass of iron." 

— Gllbride McNmnee, A. J). 1260, 
"If I were an Irishman, I would be a rebel " 

—Sir John Mnnre 

^Apl'HE season was middle May, and then, 
Jj^ By the rocks of the Southwest Sea, 
^ Strong hope grew faint in the hearts of men, 
When the French fleet bore away. 
But far, where the fir bell hung, 

With its creamy cup of dew, 
And the lambs' white feet, the meads among, 
Bent the grass, the sweet winds blew. 

But the dusky glens with their stately heights, 

And the Wicklow lakes at rest, 
Now breathe no sign of the hearthside blights, 

No sign of the hero's breast. 



54 SONGS OF IKELAND. 

That stained with radiant tide, 

The streams of his mountain home, 

Till its life throb seaward billows ride, 
And its banners, world ward roam. 

The desolate fields where the reajaers stood, 

And the curragh's* meads were broad. 
And the wild steep coast of the spray and flood. 

Knew the steps of men outlawed. 
And the Hill of Tara shone 

Where the dead so long had lain, 
With its beacon fires as in days long gone, 

For a thousand years were vain. 

A thousand years were vain to rend. 

Those long tried homes apart, 
And again the pike and the bugle send 

A thrill to the peasant heart. 
And the stars, like the gold of cloth. 

For tent, by fern and fell. 
Made a canopy for the low sworn oath, 

Ere gathered the tnimpet's swell. 

Then the island days to a stillness came. 

Dismay, but it was not pale. 
Heard the yearling babe coo its father's name 

At the door, — heard the wife's last wail; 
But his heart was girded strong. 

And his arm of restless ndght. 
Had less of a buckler than its wrong, 

Of a shield, than its native right. 



••'The "curragh" is an extensU^e rolling plain reaching five 
miles fitber way. situated in the countv Kildare, Jreland, and 
invested with much of legendary and historic interest. 



SONGS OF lEELAND. 55 

Kathfarnham's* flower leaves dense and green 

Were softlj^ bright at morn, 
Ere night its bravest dead had been 

Covered by bush and thorn. 
And forts that dared success 

In flames and mighty wrath, 
Wavered not, till winds grew less 

O'er ashes in their path. 

The trees stark branches, gnarled and old, 

Fade slowly, yet to tell 
The victim's story, dread and cold, 

Of midnight's tortured wail; 
Where anguish, death and jeers. 

With wasting trial failed. 
Their ends, from men whose record bears, 

No suflering trust that quailed. 

Though riot's toil came close beside 

The tillers' vine hung door. 
Where mothers moaned their last, and died. 

Till men were maddened more. 
Oh! desperate wild woes, 

Unserried, and apart. 
How countless were your grievous throes. 

From casement, street and mart. 



*In a statpment of the insurrection of 1798. D'.Vrcy McGee 
savs: "Tbe first intelligence of Ue rchellion wss received in 
Dublin on the morning of thf^ 24th of May. At Kathftruh-m, 
within three miles of the rity, 500 insurgents attacked Lord 
Kly's yeomanry cori^s.''^— History of Jrelund. 



56 SONGS or lEELAND. 

Where Cloglis* sweet village, slopes away, 

The narrow pass beyond 
Grew denser — and its dusk of day, 

So hushed — grew voiceful toned. 
That silent thicket waged, 

Its bitter blood to lees, 
As though the stern dread tempest raged, 

The cauldron of the seas. 

Swift as the loud winged thunder beat, 

That battle to its height. 
There was many a courser's flying feet, 

And many a man's first fight, 
And many a fair head bowed, 

The silent bier to stain. 
The "Kune"t lament of anguish loud, 

Rose mid the hills refrain. 

But cruel, trampling multitudes, 
That came — ^those tyrant foes, 

To chain those misty mountain floods, 
Chain'd not such men as those. 



•■^Pronounced Clo; at that place, the road descending from the 
level arable land, dips suddenly into a narrow and winding 
pas . The sides of the pass were lined with a brushy shrub- 
bery, and the roadway at tiie botom erab nked with ditch and 
dylje. On came th» confident Walpole, never dreaming that 
these silent thickets were so soon to re-echo the cries of the 
onslaught. * '■' ■•• Out from the shrubbery rushed the pJke- 
men clearing ditch and dyke at a bound. Dragoons and fenci- 
bles went d jwn like grass before the scytbo of the mower; the 
three guns w,re captured, and turned on the flying furvivors. 
The regimental flags were taken with all the other spoils pe - 
taining to such a retreat It vv^.s in truth an immense victory 
for a mob of peasants marghalled by men "- ho that day saw 
their first or at most their second action.— *%e HiHtory of Ireland. 

t.\ thrilling wail over the dead, peculiar to the Irish. Its 
weii-d and haunting cadence recurs to tlie writer's memory 
whohearMt maiy a 'ime in childhood during the Yellow 
Fever epidemics at JNcw Orleans. 



SONGS OF IKELAND. 57 

For uiauY a forest shade, 

And many a rustling stream, 
Know where their exiled graves are made. 

Or where their new homes gleam. 

As where the rose of Texas blows 

When the soft snn's askance, 
To gather new o'er covered brows, 

Left sleeping there by chance, 
Whose gaze of sunny blue, 

Beneath sad Erin's skies, 
Too proudly browed — too vainly knew. 

Glad hopes's lost destinies. 

And when war's banners proudest stream, 

Across some battle sky, 
Such loyal glance so true doth seem, 

Itfi patriot's victory. 
Although no floM'ered sword, 

For them. No trophied urn, 
A soldier's grave upon the sward, 

This only — restful bourne. 

Lo, as the cross of Constantine, 

Hung dim in rosy clouds. 
Thy thousand graves are softly green, 

O'er France's martial shrouds, 
With IIciJ-p and LUi/ rest, 

Prophetic and entwined, 
With records faithful to each test. 

And sacred memory shrined. 



JOSEPHINE AT MALMAISON. 



[The feelings with which Josephine took up her residence at 
Malmalson amidst the scenes so dear to her may be conceived : 
but true to the wishes of the Emperor and to the dictates of 
her own . levated mind shp bore ud under her trying situation 
with exemplary dignity. During nnny hou'-s of the day she 
shut herself up alone in Napoleon's cabinet, that chamber 
which she continued to hold so sacred that scarcely any one 
but herself ever entered it. She w uld not suffer anything to 
be moved since Napoleon had occupied it. She would herself 
wipe away the dust, fearing that other hands might distuib 
what he had touched. The volume which he had been reading 
when last there, lav on the table open at the page at which 
he had last looked, everything seemed as if Le were about 
to enter. •" "••■• ■••• '■'■ '•■• ••' '■■ '■•' She would remain for 
the length of the day alone in the chamber by the large desk 
containing Napoleon's letters, one of which she was observed 
to read over and over again and then place in her bosom. 
It was written from Brienne. A passage in it ran thus: "On 
revisiting this spot where I passed my youthful days, and con- 
trastim? th^ peaceful condition I then enjoyed with the state of 
terror and agitation to which my mind is now aprej'.often 
have I addressed myself in these words: 'I have sought death 
in numberless engagements— I can no longer dread it'* ap- 
proach. I could now hail it as a boon. Nevertheless I would 
wish to see Josephine once more. Adieu, my dear Josephine; 
never dismiss from your recollection one who has never lor- 
gotten you— never will forget you ' "J 



^H! God, in places olden, 
\]W On plains by hill and shore, 

Wherein the stories folden. 
Seem always, as before, 
If Hope, and Faith, and waiting. 
Were here to tind a greeting, 
And my heart's wildest beating — 
Ah! — doubled o'er and o'er. — 



JOSEPHINE AT MALMAISON. 59 

See, Lord, Thy ways in fanes 
Barred up by custom's chains: 
No open port remains 

Where e'er man's foot is found. 
But Love's thy spirit's light, 
And Life thy mortal blight, 
The cloven foot in sight 

One side, with spear woimd. 

What then! — if the mere seeming, 

Of glance, and lip, and cheek, 
A moment o'er me beaming; — 

A sigh, that could not speak. 
Oh! God, through thy hands' wringing; 
The wild bird hath its singing, 
And glad hfe hath its flinging. 

To where new pulses break. 

The very bees have voices, 
Unmated blooms have choices, 
And streams have anthem noises. 

Yet each knows not the other. 
The language hath no signing 
By which each can, combining, 
Mark where each may, defining 

Call separate need, a brother. 

Though no word may be said, 
The Shepherd's Star o'erhead 
Shines where the dumb are fed. 

Each side a helpless God; 
Or at some time before 
The waters hushed their roar 
And j)arted shore and shore. 

Each side a Prophet's rod. 



60 .TOSEPHINK AT MALMAISON. 

O ! God, whose ways are changing, 

Even when maj^les tarn, 
To where red gold is ranging 

Along the leaves that bnrn. 
"Thou Knowest," and "Thovi KnoM'est, 
And at the last thou showest, 
Always so sure, though slowest, 
However long men mourn. 

Ah, selfish I, oh Lord! 
To pity or call hard 
One life without reward, 

Forgetful of Thee— all; 
Where streams fall into valleys 
To fresh the lily's chalice. 
From whence the honey palace 

Bears arch and entresol. 

Whereby the flower was growing, 
And shadows fell from trees, 
Where wheat will soon be mowing, 

Upon the harvest leas, 
Far, far, from where you're dwelling, 
Where sunset hills are swelling. 
And spring-tide streams are welling, 
I thoiTght such thoughts as these: 

So each one's story told 

In shimmering shade and gold. 

Along where time is scrolled. 

Seemed separate phase apart; 
Yet, lo ! see how they bend, 
Beginning unto end, 
So doth thy presence blend, 

Between us, heart and heart. 



CARLISLE CASTLE. 



fThe ancient Castle of Carlisle has succumbed to the march 
of utilitarianism. "I he people" turned it into a barracks or 
lactory in 1861 (Carlisle was an Augustine priorv of monks 
and a nunnery, founded in the year 686 It was destroyed in 
the Spanish wars, but was rebuilt by William Rufus and Wal- 
ter, a Norman priest.] 



^^'ILENCE had mautl'd for long years thy towers, 
l^^i Hallowed the mem'ry of departed hours, 

Jt With joyousness of steps that went in youth 
Glad with the trustfulness of hope and truth. 
And firmly girded sword and buckler on, 
Pledged for the land the Saracens had won. 

Thy lofty arches then re-echoed grand 
To solemn music of the choral band, 
And softly lighted aisles, tilled with profound, 
Sweet gentleness of voice; the holy sound 
Of nun's most tender prayer and whispered vow, 
Those that have sanctified — where are they now ? 



62 CARLISLE CASTLE. 

Some in the quiet chancel still are sleeping, 
Where late the tangled ivy low was creeping, 
And some in Eastern wilds, where tropic blooms 
Of Oleander shade earth's unmarked tombs 
With but a flower's soft lustre, void of sign, 
That on a pompous slab might mark the line 
Of proud ancestral rest, whose sacred fame 
Glowed in the lighted crypt's fine chiselled name 
Enshrin'd within thee, o'er the distant seas, 
Full of the chorus of the centuries. 

So sinks thy glory now, before the hand 
Of innovation stalking o'er the land. 
Even thee it will not spare, oh ancient pile! 
For charm of modern art may now beguile. 
Clasp of the clinging plant from lintel's edge 
Cast where the rip'ling moat's soft swaying sedge 
Had glinted in the breaths of tender hours, 
And radiance of sun mornings and soft show'rs, 
And glow of summer moons above hill brows, 
Silv'ry, a mantle on thy ruin throws. 
Which, reverential, clothes with tender light 
The time- wreck 'd splendor of thy silent light. 

Now may the revel hold where censor swung, 
And where the dim-stain 'd windows nightly flung 
Weird gleams of mosaic wn each pillared crown; 
Whose sciTlptur'd beauty mocked gloom's chastened 

frown. 
Half veiled from stern decay the frescoed wall, 
By stems long matted, clung a rigid pall, 
Not since disturbed till now, when crash of doom 
Mav "renovate" and desecrate thv glocm. 



BEAD IN THE STEEBAGE. 



Seven years old, and the delicate rays 

Of shaded Italian skies, 
Faded then out from a dear smiling place, — • 

Her childish, beautiful eyes. 

She was but poor, with the foreign speech 

Of her parents' kindred land, — 
Strangers, and sorrowful, standing each, 

Just holding a small dead hand. 

Tossed amber rings, where the fever fed. 

Lay out on the canvas strip; 
Not all the noise on the deck overhead. 

Brought again the moan to her lip. 

The engine clanked — they were going slow — 
The waters grew shallow and green: 

They made her a grave, when the ship "lay to, 
In the Mexican hills between. 



B4 df:ad in the steeka<+e. 

Her coffin was boards of the roughest pine, 

XInflowered, iintinted of hue, 
But over and under they did entwine 

A flag of the starry bhie. 

Into the long-boat lowered it, then. 

The plash of the oars dipjDed low, 
Bearing it over the soft waves, when 

The sun was brightest at glow. — 

When the sun was brightest, at summer glow, 

That never would set for her. 
The shoal was broad, like a glad young brow, 

And the bay-washed shells astir. 

Like piilses of some child-heart at play 
With the tides and throbs of life, 

There's where they made her a grave that day 
Far, far from the davs of strife. 




LINES 

WRITTEN IN HONOR OF THE OPENING OF THE NEW HALL 
ON THE THIRTEENTH ANNUAL COMMENCEMENT OF THE 
SANTA CLARA COLLEGE INSCRIBED TO C. F. WIL- 
COX, J. T. M ALONE & MARTIN J. C. MURPHY. 



" Thee, father!" first they sung; ''Omnipotent, 
Immutable, immortal, infinite; 
Eternal king, the author of all being ! 
Fountain of light, Thyself invisible 
Amidst the glorious brightness where Thou sitt'st, 
Throned inaccessible, but when thou shad'st 
The full blaze of Thy beams, and through a cloud 
Drawn round about Thee, like a radiant shrine, 
Dark with excessive brigh<^. Thy skirts appear. 
Yet dazzle Heaven, the brightest seraphim 
Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes. " 

—Milton. 

pSf^HE delicate rim of a gilded arch 
|j^ Loomed high, to the roofed concave, 
^ O'er a scene of the amber sun aslant 
On a soft Italian wave. 

The painted scene of a Venice Sea, 

Hung rich; and softly dim, 
Where the hall was full of the melody 

Of a noble, march-like hymn. 

And meet was the offering's shrine that hour 

For the future's memory, 
That will go back with a viAdd power, 

Ah! more than hauntingly. 



66 



For the rose-crowned feet there stood at first, 
Vv'^hile the young heart's flush rose high, 

To the loud acclaim of joy's new burst, 
Over cheek, and lip, and eye. 

Oh, may their noontide warmth be strong, 

As now their morning light, 
And all fruition's charm be wrung 

From proud ambition's height. 

No longer pale with student thought, 
The broad young brow that bends 

O'er fiery altars, soul-enwrought, 
Where step of science tends. 

Where all transfigured,* then as deemed. 
Some mount of knoweledge gained. 

The calm, majestic face had seemed 
No longer anxious, pained. 

But triumph luminous, in eyes 

Of manly, deep repose: 
Stars hold in keeping mysteries, 

Whose keys to them unclose. 

An Ocean shadows in his caves 

The colors of soft seas. 
But gives their living light from waves 

To soulful eyes like these. 



* Saggestive of this idea was the face of the studpnt, illumined 
on the mount of scientific ..uowledge ; purely pale, sometimes, 
in the silver radiance, and anon Hushed with the glory of a 
thousand scintillations and beautiful colored flames, of violet, 
crimson and amber, as the chemical and electrical processes 
underwent successive illustrationp>, till the beholder involun- 
tarily exclaimed, gazing at the earnest delineator, '-Transfig- 
ured on the naount." 



67 



How eloquent and bright lie came, 

Whose words of feeling fell 
Till classic grew our Webster's name, 

Enthroned upon their swell. 

As the pnre crest upon a tide, 

In tones full organ-grand, 
With heartful voice, and theme allied. 

Was step, and brow, and hand. 

Long had the slumbrous ages blew, 

Their dust o'er ^gean seas, 
But thou an urn hast lighted new. 

To dead Demosthenes. 

And not forgotten in the might 

Of all our patriot pride. 
Another came to tell the blight 

Of blessings thus denied. 

As sorrow's fervor, low and strong, 

And tremulously deep. 
Waked from its restless tale of wrong 

The dust of Curran's sleep. 

Till all, as many an exiled heart 

Remembered to have seen. 
Where distant far, leaning, apart, 

His grave sweet grasses lean. 

The hall is hushed; as though he speaks, 

The lustre burneth low; 
We hear the mother's heart that breaks— 

The Irish cabin's woe. 



08 



Land unredeemed! wait still thine hour, 

For surely it will come ; 
For thee a voice o'er wrongs that low'r, 

Stirs a new temple's dome. 

Be true, be great, be nobly best, 
Though on some hours should fall 

From margins of earth's wide unrest, 
The spirit's fainting thrall. 

Think of this hour, its arch of light, 

Its flower-entwined feet, 
Resolving that life's circuit bright. 

Shall its renewal meet. 






COMMUNINGS IN OLD PLACES. 



"The shadowy ghosts of our departed years 

Will rise commingled with the scenes and thoughts, 

And fairy palaces which Fancy built 

Upon the airy heights, and changing sands 

Of that wild isthmus which alone connects 

The past and future— two eternities." 

—Bigney's Poems. 

tPASS with a slower step than of yore 
Thy crumbling rnin — my old home door ! 
Where the yine-covered mould is greeting 
My weary steps, as it erst was wont, 
And the violets — each holds its little fount, 
With its drop of dew soft setting. 

Let me here for a while call thee back, brown eyes, 
And question thee tenderly, for the replies 

Of all that thy thoughts are knowing — 
Since joyously bounding over the fern. 
Of hour and flow'rs that -^dll never return 

To where thee, and the buds, were growing. 

But what is itj shimmering over thee, plays ? 
Not the violet's dew, with its scintling rays — 

Not the mists that float in the morning, 
As over the golden meadows you look, 
Towards the sloping edge of the reeded brook. 

Where the rising sun was burning. 



70 COMMUNINGS IN OLD PLACES. 

And you played with the wands of yellow cane, 
Till the ripples broke in a sweet refrain— 

They were hollow, so like a flute — 
But why do you turn from my words away, 
Did ever a note from among them stray 

To your heart — and then, was mute ? 

See, here are the buds, all lilac and white. 
That fell down from the China-boughs at night, 

Hark! the morning's seventh bell, 
When the carrolling bird on the branch outside 
Trilled sweet his melody far and wide — 

A song with a symbol swell. 

There the little church, where the censers burn. 
Though their light to thee may never return, 

From under the drooping moss. 
Over two small hands there clasped in awe. 
You thoughtfully drooped ere you learned to know 

That life had its emblem cross. 

Shall I wait, brown eyes, though never a sign. 
As you absently gaze where the woods of pine 

Loom over the flowing river — 
Till the stately moon, from the clouds unrolled, 
Seems as a brow, between hands as cold. 

Over lids, that only quiver. 



LINES WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM. 



AFFECTIONATELY INSCKIBED TO MISS MARY KELLY. 



* The Lora sbowed him a tree, which, when he had cast into 
the waters, the waters were made sweet."— Exodus, Chapter XV. 

"Till the day break and the shadows retire, return."— Can^i- 
cle of Canticles. 

'Mpj|HEEE was a place of waters flowing dull, 
S^ Where Summer died, and murmurs of regret 
i^ Mingled with swaying reed and rocky fret; 
The weary prophet trembled in his soul 

When they said unto him, "What shall we drink?" 

"Lo! this is Mara," said he unto them; 

The camps of rock and all .the torrent's bed 
Heard it forever named as he had said 

"Bitter," because they sorrowed blaming him — 
He raised a stricken tree and did not shrink. 

Behold the flower and the branch, and hold 
The cups' of grief, long empty, unto faith. 
Since on the faces of the waves of death 

I cast this as the Lord His wish hath told. 
Thereafter found they strangely it was sweet. 

So mayst thou find it, O thou lip of Eose ! 
Some leaflet floating from the Syrian breeze 
Of God's great gift to sweeten life with Peace. 

Low hangs the middle arch of his repose 
Close to the pattering of thy faithful feet! 



COLUMBUS. 



[The six following poems were published in the " Era " and the 
old " True Delta," of New Orleans, La.l 



^ ^HY pale hands were lifted in prayer 
5XK While thy bark on the billow was tossed, 

And the angry wave, 

A requiem gave 
To the men's' buoyant hopes; — that were lost. 

The morning light softly came, 
And there floated a dark face by; 

No vesture or sign, 

Of his name or clime, 
There came to thine asking eye. 

How eager, the spell that lay 
On thy parted, quivering lip; 

Lifting the head 

Of the sea-born dead, 
So dark with the water's drip. 

What gems of knowledge lay hid 
In the gleam of the still cold eye, 

As thou gavest again 

To the trackless main 
Thy pearl, for its treasur3\ 

Then the reeds and wild lilies came 
Bright from the unknown shore, 

Greeting thy feet 

With their fragrance sweet 
Strewing thy pathway o'er. 



COLUMBUS. 73 

A gleam — in the starless gloom — 
Fitful, and lurid, and bright 

It arose to the eye, 

With a sweet mystery, 
That fled with the morning's light. 

Did not thy great soul feel 
A joy in the trackless wild, — 

In the birds' song bowers, 

And sweet wild flowers. 
And the homage of Nature's child. 

Calling thee thy true name, 

A messenger sent from on high; 

Regarding thy brow 

With trembling awe. 
And the wonderful wings, that could fly. 

But thy feet, whom the lilies had kissed, 
Dragged to the wearying chain,* 

And thy lone coffin lid. 

Their dark shame hid, 
From the eyes of the sons of Spain. 

■•'His success and the great mark of favor shown him by his 
sovereign did not fail to excite envy and jpalousy against him 
in the Court of Spain. In consequence of various false and 
grojndless charges, he was deprived of the government of 
Hispaniola and sent home in chains. The captain of the vessel 
in whicti he returned, through respect to his illustrious cap- 
t've, offered to release him from his fetters. To whom Colum- 
bus replied: "No; I wear these chains in consequence of an 
order from their majesties, the rulers of Spain. They will 
find me as obedient in this as in every other injunction. 
By their command I have been confined and (heir command 
alone shall set me at liberty " On his return to Spain in chains 
the voice of indignation was heard from men of every rank, 
even Ferdinand seemed to feel the blush of shame. Columbus 
never forgot this unjust treatment during the remainder of his 
life. He carried about with him the fetters in which he had 
been bound and gave orders that they should be buried with 
him in his grave,— [J/". J, Kerney^s Compendium of History. 



MOTHER. 




!/^^E parted, dear mother; and thy gentle eye, 

Looked again, and again, as if fond memory, 
Should cherish the picture forever: 
And kissing me tenderly on the still lip, 
The last honey dew of the earth might sip, 
I stood looking adown life's river. 

And wavelet on wavelet went hurrying on. 
Bearing away thy last loved tone, 

Far fjfom thy lonely child, 
And flowers there grew by the river's side, 
Whose sM^eetness lay round me far and wide 

But yet with a waywardness wild. 

I sighed for the flowers that floated away, 
And looked for their sweetness each sunny day. 

In those that gre w by the river. 
But the wavelets still went hurrying on, 
Saying, child, dost thou expect under the sun 

To find them replaced ever? 




MUSIC. 

>HAT spell of memory in thy softness lingers, 
Touching our hearts as with fairy fingers, 
Dripping with tears. 
Dimming the joyous eyes, and the "voices gone," 
That come to us in thy silvery tone, 
From the vanished years ? 

Perchance the lovely Hjds are white, and cold. 
Who called thine Eden notes in days of old, 

From dreauiy rest, 
With wandering thought, and half suppressed sigh, 
We hear again, the soothing lullaby. 

Upon a mother's breast; 

Or thou may'st be the mystic song whose tone. 
Wafted away, the peace of our heart's home. 

Beyond recall; 
Coming again, like flowers to the dead, 
Making a chaplet for the weary head, 

Strewing a pall. 

Perchance around some stranger's glowing hearth, 
We felt thy sweetness in its joy and mirth, 

A welcome share; 
May no reproach in thy softness linger. 
Touching our hearts as with fairy linger. 

Asking a tear. 



TWILIGHT BEST. 



GOKGEOUS gloom lies in the shadow of the 

robe of night, 
I stand alone beneath the wandering moon's 
pale light 
And now, anon, 'tis hid beneath a cloud from sight. 

The weary cares that haunt with day the tired heart. 
Forget their snai?es and take away their poisoned dart, 
That with our fears and hopes had played in cruel sport. 

And now the mind to beauteous places, rare and wild. 
Flies like the wind, or like the feet of some joyous 

child, 
Who treasures find where e'er the God of nature 

smiled. 

Gathering flowers in the soft gloom of green hedge 

ways 
To cheer the hours, the toil, and dust, of after days. 
The twilight pours these as the soft wind plays. 

From out the vases and all the beauteous urns. 
The lovely places where e'er our memory tiirns, 
They leave their traces, and with incense burns. 



THE BLACK HOLE OF CALCUTTA. 



^HE nabob to Fort William came, — 
Meer Jaffier's haughty Lord, 
And wondered whether sword or flame, 
Should fate his fiat's word; 

And said with angered loud reproach, 

Why did'st thou dare defend, 
Against the ruler of Bengal, 

Before whom all should bend? 

The ships went down to Govinepore, 

That could have saved you all. 
But on a soldier's word of truth, 

No harm shall you befall. 

The English leader, to his men. 

Went back with this glad cheer; 
But found the galleries guarded in— 

The quarters all on fire. 



78 THE BLACK HOLE OF CALCUTTA. 

And now a dnugeou must be found, 

To garrison the men, 
The eighteen feet of square "Black hole' 

A breathless iroji den. 



Behind the close veranda barred. 

One hundred and one-half, 
They enter — and each murmured word 

Cut down with scoff and laugh. 

Meer Jaffier to his sleep has gone 
And must not be disturbed. 

The Jemandars* walk up and down. 
And vainly are implored. 

But one who on his face did bear 

The kindest look of all 
To pleading cries and looks came near 

For promised rupees' call. 

' ' Must all my men, this horrid night. 

Die at each other's feet. 
Poor Holwell said, with eyes of light 

And bitter woi^ds unmeet: 

" One thousand rupees I will give 

For water, light or air. 
They're dying fast, in twos and threes' 

Ah! incoherent prayer. 



THE BLACK HOLE OF CALCUTTA. 79 

No change of posture, or relief, 

Till the eleventh hour. 
Some skins of water handed through 

Were all th' assuaging power. 

And these in struggling hands did make 

But greater the distress, 
In curses loud and blasphemies. 

And dying prayerfulness. 

The night passed on, — Meer Jaffier slept 

Where none would dare intrude, 
And those whom that vigil kept 

But twenty — kept it good. 




WELCOME TO THE NORMAL SCHOOL. 



M^h^IiE amber disk of tlie April moon 
]jj^ Lights up all the splendid inland lea, 

Like the Champac's lustrous Lidian bloom, 
Where the Ganges flow to the gates of the sea. 

The poplars gleam with their dusky shafts 
Against the opaque of twilight skies; 

The silent bird, with a dew damp'd wing, 
More swiftly home to its mate now flies. 

The leaves are new on the last year's branch, 
That blows in the warmth of hearth-sides near 

The pear-blooms know that their soft flung white. 
For the fruit's sweet sake will soon be sere. 

This is the vale by the peaceful sea, 
This is a new world's ambient zone: 

The rocks sing the age's minstrelsy, 

Where the tender waves have an organ's tone. 

For they know this, more than the cities east, 
Where turret, and palace, and ruin lie, — 

The Alhambra's arch, and the jungle's beast, 
The accacia's bloom in the desert's sigh. 

Oh! sorrowful, dim old lands of graves ; 

Turret and spire, and dome of old; 
Dungeons that moan by Venetian waves, 

Let your memories die with their stories told. 



WELCOME TO THE NOKMAL SCHOOL. 81 

Let tlie loom be still, and the pale liands reach, 
Aye, children's hands, so thin and small; 

See ! the bright shells lie on the lonely beach 
And the woodland flow rs of springtime call. 

Let the smoke roll off from the factory's roof: 

There the night stays long through the cheerless 
dawn, 

Let the weary eyes that gaze on the woof, 

Come here where the wheat fiow'rs bend on the lawn. 

And where mists that hnng from the Delphic shrine, 

Bend over the silver hills at n orn, 
Where the purple glows of the impressed vine, 

Are waiting for nectar gods unborn, — 

And the broad facade of a temple's power. 
Will soon arise where the mountains shine. 

Thrice welcome again be the new born hour. 
Green be the crowns of the laurelled Nine. 

The lily shall gleam like a lamp in shade 

Of the maiden's hair when the groves are broad, 

Where a sunbeam wreathing the student's head. 
Will seem as a stray sweet smile of God. 

The eagle shall sit on its highest cone, 
And the silver feet on the heights shall be. 

And the sacred dust of the "Pantheon," 
Shall arise from the tombs of memory. 

San Jose, Gala. 



THE FUNEIiAL OF ALBERT SIDNEY 
JOHNSON. 



T 
"^2^XR'E fell! — and they cried, "brinp; us home our 

'"'11 dead, 

We '11 bury him here, where the prairies' spread, 

And the Gulf waves beat on our Southern shore; 

He will hear them not, when he comes, once more, 

Our Albert Sidney Johnson. 
When he went, how the flush of hope beat high 
On the brows of the "Kangers" standing nigh. 
And the champion steeds of the Texas plain. 
For his voice was that, to their bridle rein, 

That the air 's to the Persian monsoon. 



They bore him then o'er the crash of wheels, 
No sound of their soii'ow the hero feels, 
While many are come that are sad and fair, 
With the flower and star for his bloody bier, 

And weeping they laid them down. 
And the crescent shone with a wreathing grace 
Around ihai star on his covered face, 
No sound, but of sobs, and a parting look, 
And the forest night where the damp winds shook 

As the train went rumbling on. 



FUNERAL OF ALBKET SIDNEY JOHNSON. 83 

Down to the feet of of the mourning sea, 
"Where the sands made the only melody, 
No band, or bell, was played or tolled. 
But the hero cared not, — hate fell cold 

On the heart of hmi who slept. 
Where the church was closed, by the mandate given 
While he lay on the wharf under night — and heaven. 
Fair friend, and slave, with uncovered head — 
Gazed alike, on the face of the dead. 

And alike in silence loept. 

So the vigil held, till the chastened cloud 
For the shame of man hid its head and bowed, 
And thousands came when the moon was high 
And bore the cortege sadly by, 

For his home was nearing then. 
As the prairie flowers, that now grow o'er him, 
Were the white maned steeds that walked before him, 
Proud stepped, and slow; and the mourners said, 
Let a stately place for his couch be made, 

Houston will have a fane. 

So they laid him out in a proud old hall, 
Where the floor's edge kissed the sacred pall. 
And thousands came to that hallowed room. 
Till the day went down to the night of gloom, 

For his land did honor him. 
And when to the bannered march's swell 
They bore him out with a lingering knell. 
Thousands there from the hallowed room 
Went out that day to the night of gloom, 

For the sun in the west was dim. 



LINES TO MY OLDEST SON. 



LL the summer's golden June, 

The August and September time 
The river's mild, deep undertone. 

The landed steamer's morning chime, 
I knew, and knowing day by day, ^ 

One year of years, now seventeen, — 
And then my joy was glad and mute 
Then came your babyhood's salute. 

The little mouth of my delight. 
Is coaxing up its first mustache, 

And tiny brows are brows of might 
Where manhoods years may feel and flash, 
The grace of time — the world's worth, 
May hail them as new thrones of earth. 
But know, erewhile, ambition feels 
The rough roads of the chariot wheels; 
Soft awfuiuess of grief is made 
Sometimes of brows with glory bayed, 
Ah; nameless chronicles are naught, 
If Life with Love and Peace be fraught, 



LINES TO MY OLDEST SON. 85 

The golden helm is one true hand 
Whose warmth is not a battle brand. 
And like pure shafts of Orient towers, 
The chastened thoughts of youthful hours 
A stronger sun more splendid falls, 
On their full beauty's coronals, 

Be strong like ships that fearless go, 
Be cautious like still leaves at night. 

Be prayerful; so thy star shall glow, 
By wave and shore in pathless light. 




FOUND dead:' 



sfe 



" A grave for the stranger."— ^Veir Orleans paper. 



^Xg^ALE is tliy cheek, — and hid the frozen tear 
hj^ Beneath the brown hish in whose gentle gleam 
A^ Dwelt love for some one whose unconscious 
prayer 
May seek it henceforth on the earth in vain. 

Now we may take thee by the cold, cold hand 
That is no more for sympathy extended, 

Perhaps a stranger in a stranger land, 

With not a kindred brow above thee bended. 

Silence is on thy lip; — no word or name, 

By which to know thee, or thy sad, sad tale. 

Thy proud heart lonely in its grief, and shame, 
Breathed sorrow only to the winter's wail. 

Where may thy home be, or thy gentle mother, 
'Tis well she sees thee not, if such thou hast. 

We give thee to the quiet earth, our brother; 
Alas! we give thee but a grave at last. 



aABBEN WALKS AT NOTRE DAME. 



INSCRIBED TO A 1 F- 



'OW chanced it that together we should so 
Have ever met? She of the presence bright, 
With cloth of white bound up about her brow, 
And tender eyelids over azure light — 
As mild as Heaven, or as the violets sweet, 
That fringed the garden path down at her feet. 

Sometimes she stopped at white sprays near her hand, 
Where bees with plumy wings went forth and back, 

To some orchestral lily, whose sweet band, 
Swung low the music censor for her sake. 

I thought how like they were to messengers, 

Out from and to her heart all its life hours. 

She was the spirit that they typified. 
In flow'ring time of stem and coronal, 

Whose mu»ic-pulses to her heart replied. 
As mem'ries sweet and bright she did recall. 

With smile and gesture and soft step held still, 

And soul aglow with nature's holy thrill. 



00 GAEDEN WALKS AT NOTEE DAME. 

The wall was mossy on its margin near, 

Where jnst before some distant woodland singer 

Had flown, and left his echo matin pray'r. 

Just where he knew her steps would come and linger, 

With colors of glad blossoms, finger-twined, 

Tlie while one thought how seemed they to her mind. 

"Why not love God," she said; "it is but right 
That he who made our thoughts should have their 
best," 

And here she put a tender spray of white 
Amongst the violets in their emerald nest; 

Though all unconscious, like a lyre in tune. 

Her fingers with her thoughts held sweet commune. 

The time will come, I know, when even this 
Will only have been in the drifts Of years; 

But let me keejo its calm remembrances — 
A dew of Hermon amongst many tears. 

A soft " thou knowest " from some quiet deep. 

That answers unto all its vigils keep. 




FLOWERS GATHERED ON THE WAY HOME. 



'LOWEKS gathered lonely where— 

When the day's long labor's done — 
Thoughts come like a worldless pray'r 
Of some darling at home. 

These are flowers, and not words, 
With a speech of tongue— the token 

Is that music on whose chords 
Speech is felt, but is not spoken. 

Tints of evening, ambe clouds, 
AVith the purple cascandes near them ; 

Birds all flying home in crowds, 

Singing, though but few may hear them. 

They mean this, and something more. 
Shells upon the ocean beaches, 

Scattered 'long the saunding shore. 
Out of breaker's cruel reaches. 

They mean hands earth cannot grasp. 
Spirit hands high faith upholding. 

White palms for stronger ones to clasp, 
Like petals honeyed sweets enfolding. 



'A HOME OF LANG SYNE." 



Shall auld acquaintance be forgot. 




)Y father planted the China trees, 
That cover its old roof o'er, 
And brother and sister played in the hreeze- 
That wandered by its door. 

But some are gone far over the seas. 

And some will play no more; 
They're laving their woe tired feet in the waves, 

That wash Eternity's shore. 

Well I remember the creeping vines, 
With their blossoms purpling through, 

And the roses that laughed to the summer winds. 
And the violets sweet that grew. 

And the little glass door, with its clear white panes 

That charmed the sunlight through 
On the pine floor in shadowy stains, 

With many a varying hue. 

And the dim old loft with its books "galore," 

That many an hour beguiled, 
With their pictures of grim old kings of yore. 

And many a legend wild. 



A HOME OF LANG SYNE. 91 

And then the charms of the other old loft, 

All sweet, with its new mown hay, 
That tampted my wandering feet so oft, 

To find where the hens would lay. 

And the wild, wild songs we used to sing. 

Coming from school in the field; 
Oh, the joy that in their tones did ring. 

No music on earth will yield. 

And the old oak trees that grew in a clump, 

That we were afraid to pass; 
Where the ghost who reigned might be only a stump. 

And the sounds the waving of grass. 

And don't you remember, dear S — ve, the night 

That we had to pass it by. 
All the prayers we said, and the fright. 

We suffered, you and I, — 

And how closer together we pressed, 

And walked as fast as we could. 
And how happy we were, and blessed, 

When we got past the wood ? 

How many woods darker and drear. 

We meet in the journey of life. 
With no clasping hand to quiet our fear, 

But all alone in the strife. 

But we may remember the prayers we said, 

And walk straight on to the right. 
Until we come to the edge of the wood, 

And enter Eternity's light. 
At Bouliony (now called Jeffersoa City,) La. 



IN ABSENCE. 




HEN the silent spray of the meadow grass, 

By the wind is bent low on the lea, 
In your path — and the cars so swiftly pass 
Pensez a moi, man cher sunie. 

When the sun is high at the noon of day, 
And the shadows slant by the wayside tree, 

And you say "Sweet, rest by the tired way," 
Pensez a moi, mon cher amie. 

When the hearths of distant homes are bright, 
And you think of the vale by the vesper sea. 

One minute, sweet; be it e'er so slight, 
Pensez a moi, mon cher amie. 

If you wake when the stars are amethyst. 
And go where their light shines breathlessly. 

Oh, then, let it be that I shall be missed, 
Pensez a moi, mon cher amie. 



MIBAGE ON THE PLAINS OF HUNGARY. 



\H, Venice! I have seen thee when the light 



W O'er thy gondolas gemmed the soft lagoon 

With tints magnificently golden bright, 
As is the radiance of the sun at noon. 

And where, behind the mountains of the Ehine, 

As idly on the Nectar's bank I lay, 
I watched the Heidelberg's old towers define 

Themselves in changing hues of dying day. 

But here, where no trace on the desert lay. 

Save the dim tracks the wheels can scarcely find. 

And the sweet wells which mark the winding way, 
To bless the shepherd's thirst or roving hind. 

There night came, and we slept, and were alone, 
And lo ! at morn, after onr troubled sleep, 

All things were ncAV, and while the glad sun shone, 
A lake and landscape spanned the upper deep. 

It was a mirage ; but it looked so fair. 

That we approached it, and would not believe, 

Till arid plains, as lone as hopeless prayer. 
Unmasked the brilliancies that e'er deceive. 



94 MIKAGE ON THE PLAINS OF HUNGAEY. 

We gazed, and wondering saw a river bright, 
Extending far along the still background. 

Girt with a distant wood that charmed the sight, 
And park-like made that olden forest's bound. 

But soon dividing with a sweet half view, 
A village, just commencing like a hope, 

Appeared and passed, and then distinct grew 
The barren plains beneath the fading group. 






LA PETROLEUSE. 



MMHEEE with the passing dread on her, 
X And nothing more to gain or lose, 
A With revolvers pointed two or more. 
Yon may shoot her now for a Petrolense. 

Twelve months ago, even so late, 
She was a woman good and true, 

But how was it all in the siege, her fate 
Grew red with crime and pale with woe. 

How was it all, ere grief began 

To turn to shame, her mild cheek blushed 
With its changing tears, like Peristan, 

When after the rain its skies are flushed. 

They lied; in the crowd where she was hissed, 
She's not from the slums of Paris taken, 

As the libelers of the Versaillist 

Say of them all, doomed and forsaken. 

No! she will not tell her naine, 

Nor of her home or husband, nor of more; 
How when school was out, her children came 

With happy footsteps to the door. 



96 "la piteoleuse." 

First, work grew scarce, and her liusbancl, then, 
Ere he shared with her their last poor meal. 

Kissed her and bid her good-by, when 
They wanted men in the Garde Mobile. 

Then the siege came, and the snow and frost, 
And daily where the poor were fed, 

She waited, too — not least, not most, — 
And silent and half comforted. 



But she fled when the last of her children died, 
The night lamps lit a deserted poWe 

When the voices in the street outside 
Shouted, '^Commune, ou la mort.'" 

So there with the last cold dread on her, 
And nothing more to gain or lose, 

With revolvers pointed two or more, 

You may shoot her now for a Petroleuse. 






INCLINE UNTO MY AID:'— AN ACROSTIC. 



"He shall judge among natious; he shall fill ruins; he shall 
crush the heads in the land of many."— PsaJwi 109. 



^"^I^IVINE thy right is, let it be well clone, 
JjOf' And from thy signal name my armor take 
i^ Into the light of all the strong things won, 
Now wilt thon say to me ' ' sit near my hand, ' ' *" 
Giving my sad soul peace; for thou can'st make 
Even a footstool as it was foretold, 
Eoused thou he be mine enemy of old; — 
Forward a little, from the white robe's band 
Is the pressed sandal on his shining neck. 
Each, to the fire-kissed lips the low doves speak. 
Let this be seen by thee: — "make straight thy word 
Dear though its cost, — "The pathway of the Lord." 



* "Sit thou at my ri^ht hand, until I make thy enemies thy 
footstool, "—PsaJm 109. 



ANNIE LEE. 



Then Annie, with her brows afrains*^ the wall, 

Answered "i cannot look y< u in the face." 

"I a'" content" he answered, "to be loved a little after Enoch." 

— Tennyson. 

tT is not that I love him best, 
'Tis only that I can't attest 
Thy love before his throne; 
Than pride thy hope was only less, 
And that hope filled with tenderness, 
But his heart was my own; 

I held it where no human love, 
Since or before, dare throb above 

So wild a misery; 
And years have fied with only dreams, 
And yet the end so far seems 
In years that are to be. 

His soul was just as proud as thine, 
But all its right he did resign, 

Though even death might see; 
Upon my heart he laid his hands, 
And only mine since understands 

All that the cost might be. 




ALTS AY BUEN, OR THE RAID OF GILLIE- 
CHRIST* 

■■• Christ Churcb, 

I. 

^HOSE sides with flowery garlands hnng, 
Whose winds withOssian's harp had had sung, 
Whose dense, dark birch the bottoms line 

With purple heath and feathery pine. 

Made beautiful, — whose gray rock rose 

Against the sunset sky's repose — 

The azure, light-incumbent sky, 

Eeached nnto, as by Alps as high, 

Where straggling falls the knotty ash 

From storm-reft ledges with a crash; 

Where footsteps pause to seek return. 

This is the gorge of Altsay Burn, 

Not all whose beauty here I tell. 

But mark this much for what befell: 

II, 
Glengarry's chief held Angus dear, 
The eldest son, Macdonell's heir, 
The foray's leader, when the clan 
War'd with Mackenzie, man to man. 
Angus was tall and strong, they say. 
As Coromandel's lithe Palmae, 



100 ALTSAY BUKN. 

And fearless as the stag whose leap 
Is sure, or else the death that's deep. 



The dews were light on Cillie-Christ, 
And Janet Lyle's soft step the least 
Of many gentle sounds that made 
Her quick and venturous heart afraid. 
But there was Angus coming near, 
With smiles and thanks that she was here. 
She loved the chief, Glengarry's son, 
And he loved her — that love was one — 
With graves whereon they stood that hour 
Of omen, with the moonlit flow'r; 
With all things deep and sad, with things 
Whose tim'rous promise never brings 
The olive from the dove's wet wings. 

IV. 

Home from the foray's cheered success. 
Glengarry's turned, their band not less; 
Mckenzie's in the Beauly firth. 
Defeated, knew their valor's worth. 
But swore with vengeance-bated breath, 
To track young Angus to his death ; 
While homeward did his footsteps turn, 
They never came to Altsay Burn, 
The hill was steep, th' assassin's hand 
Had signal tryst of all his band, 
And cutting through the faithful ring. 
That round a chief in clamor cling, 
With eyes that flamed and cheek that flushed. 
They closed and clenched, the deadly grasp, 



ALTSAY BUKN. 101 

In silence Angus — Donald's gasp, 
Was muttered cursing — and a minute, 
Had all the fate of either in it. 
Then Angus, with unplaided throat, 
Turned faceward, saying, ere 'twas smote, 
"There, Donald Lyle, when I am slain. 
Tell her I would do this again . " 



That day a lamentation rose. 
Glengarry's vales echoed their woes. 
And rugged hearts, where grief was hard. 
Pledged Clan MacKenzie sure reward. 
Gather! Gather! from every hill, 
Rung out to Allen MacEaonuill, 
The Lord of Luudy, leading them 
Across the hills whence late they came, 
"\Vell-favored, marchiiig under night 
On to the scene of speedy blight. 
They reached it when the Sunday sun 
With chapel service had begun ; 
Then lighter grew each footstep's beat, 
And whiter grew each cheek's white heat; 
The distant twitering of a bird. 
Could on the birch's branch be heard — 
The sacred walls of Orison 
Let no sight seen of anyone, 
The sacred sound of prayer within 
Made little note of outside din; 
Till all surrounded it was held 
At door and window sentineled. 
And then — the very heart recoils, — 
The brands have blazed around their spoils 



102 ALTS AY BUEN. 

To seething flames; the claymore's clash 
Falls quickly, where the foremost' s rash 
In efforts to escape despair, 
With cursing shriek or pleading pray'r, 
The gasping breath no more recalled, 
All make the mind shrink back appalled; 
And while the victims, tortured, die. 
The Pibroch's shrill note heard on high, 
With ghastly triumph made each death 
A mockery of its mingled breath — 
Of child and mother, man and man, 
But few were left Mackenzie's clan. 



But in their turn those few soon turned 
To mustered strength where vengeance burned; 
And tracking dastard steps, took heed 
Of twofold slaughter's double deed. 
Dividing forces, two and two, 
One followed all the southside through, 
Whose longest chase was over, when 
Macdonell's halted in the glen. 
Then both the clans, though fainting, burned 
With hot revenge, each deadly turned 
Upon the other's rancorous wrath; 
Their dead were mingled in their path, 
Their mutual fury, strength of arm 
And swiftness, kept an even charm. 
At length Macdonell's numbers, less. 
Were driven in their last distress 
To the wild torrent's rugged side. 
In tumbled, or fell first, and died. 



ALTS AY BURN. 103 

VII. 

Mac Raonuill, strong, athletic frame, 
Held longest to his valor's fame, 
And having made his flight the best 
To where the torrent 'tensely pressed, 
A narrow chasm — death to miss, 
He meant to leap the dread abyss. 
While hot pursued, he took a glance — 
The depth, the breadth, the desp'rate chance, 
And blind with danger, fierce with hope, 
With venture he would dare to cope 
Success. O, heaven! his sure foot 
Is safe ! Mackenzie in pursuit, 
With less of strength and length of limb, 
And less of the wild stag in him. 
Leaps after, falling short, the brink 
Grown sapling in his grasp must shrink. 
Mac Eaonuill turns,— the daughng wretch 
Looks upward, and his eyes beseech, 
Mac Eaonuill, coming nearer, took 
His dirk, with fiendish smile, and struck 
The sapling, saying, "Take that too, 
I've given much to-day to you." 






AGA MOHAMMED. 



[Thp avarice of this monarch was often the cause of awkward 
and ludiorous incidents. The following, related by Frazer, 
bears such a striking H'ld amusing comment on many every 
day human motives, that we transpose It.] 



GA Mohammed was great and wise; 
A mendicant once prostrated lay 
In the path of his train, at the noon of day, 
On whom the benevolent cast his eyes. 

'Give him an alms," the monarch said; 
(And between us here it may just be told 
That Aga Mohammed was fond of gold;) 
But "God is great," let gifts be spread ! 

And they were, — for, lo, the courtiers all, 
Observing well their gracious king, — 
'Twas thus the bulbuls learned to sing — 
Gave to the mendicant, great and small. 

The pious monarch and all his train 
Moved onward through ihe adoring crowd. 
Whose tendered homage 'was deep, not loud, 
Till the hour of pray'r at eve again. 

Then night came over Khorassan's vales; 
Baba, and Jaffer, and Houssin Khan 
Sat where the fountains rippled and ran, 
To fill their chibouks and tell their tales. 



AGA MOHAMMED, 105 

But Aga Mohammed was ill at ease, 
On piles of cushions although reclined; 
His brow was sad, and his temper pined ; 
In vain his ministers tried to please. 

Oh, Allah! this morning that scoundrel lied 
That was j)rostrate there in the crowded street. 
The dog of a Christian! Oh, the cheat!" 
With sorest impatience the monarch cried ; 

The rogue! he promised to give mine back 
Along with half what the others gave. 
Haste, Mirza! bring me the arrant knave; 
I'll give him the Bosphorus and the sack!" 

But in vain were the horsemen ordered out, 
The fellow was off full manj^ a mile. 
And the courtiers did not dare to smile 
At the vain return of each weary scout. 




SWINBURNE ^LEADING TO SAPPHO. 



[The following lines embody the Pythagorean idea, that the 
soul of Phaoi), whom Sappho so hopelessly loved, was born 
anew into the body of Swinburne, than whose heart no more 
appropriate and retributive Hell "Circle" could be created. 
Those familiar with the writings of Swinburne, and the story 
of Sappho and Phaon, will perceive the suggestiveness.] 



" Lucaoia's rock still overlooks the wave."— J5?/?'on. 

'MpllME lingers ; antlien s break from sudden M^ind ; 
ijXL Leaves from the trees rush like the startled hind, 
*^ And the dim shadows glancing o'er the sea, 
Arise, all charged with troubled melody; 
Judgments arrayed, impassioned of its theme, 
(That I, thy Phaon, should have lived to dream,) 
Returned evasive meanings of all time, 
Sick — for thy beanty — for thy voice's chime. 
More than assuaged for centuries «thy part, , • 
Stung with the thorns of roses at thy heart. 
As filled with wrath of travil thou wouldst not 
Eest like the sea-dirged dead, and be forgot. 
Incense of Pyrrho, for the perished lays, 
And blooms of night, whose sweets fill scattered ways; 
Sparkling of sudden fire with serpent fold, 
Wound off, the years and tears, that were untold. 



SWINBUKNE PLEADING TO SAPPHO. 107 

Sleep Cometh with her hands closed fast on flowers, 
That perish brown, and fall among the hours ; 
While wafts of gale-blown grief won from the sea, 
Brought only sorrow unto me and thee ; 
But never from the storm that doth arouse. 
Gleaned she the riches of red coral boughs, 
Or blossom-kisses of thy panting mouth, 
Honeyed by dews of the soft balmy South, 
With thrills of shame too swiftly drawn away — 
Terror that on thy breast my lips did stay; 
Surely new vengeance found a beaten path. 
With all the subtle tortures that she hath; 
Mem'ry and madness, and the thoughts that wring 
Thy passionate heart with keenest suffering; 
Whisjaers from lips, that fall on lips too tame 
To thrill with passion or to pale with blame. 
Story of seasons, long and far apart, 
From this day. and the day you felt my heart 
Beat at your own too fast to evfen stay 
One little hour of all Life's hours, away, 
For sapphire drifts of years, that sad go by. 
Shaded with lustre of thy pleading eye, 
And veins of amethyst, like flower stems urned 
Between thy w^hite neck and my lips, that burned. 
Oh, Love, one moment, let it be; I j)lead, 
For all the life of sorrow's piteous need; 
See how my mouth thy mouth's sad words repeats; 
Feel how my heart thy heart's sad music beats; 
Silence the audience of the solitude, 
^e soft and tender, for a changed mood, 
Fashioned within the raiment of a gloom. 
Knowing thee love; as it was said of whom 
They nailed beside the road, and then denied; 
But knew the God of Gods when He had died. 



108 SWINBURNE PLEADING TO SAPPHO. 

Full of the pain that never perisheth, 
And twined with stray sobs of thy mnsed breath, 
Choosing the stories that all men may read, 
And count the measure of a ruined heed. 
With my hands bared upon the wild black mane 
Of life, the lion of a new born pain ; 
Seek thee, and find thee not, but find a thing — 
A heaviness of tongue, strange songs to sing, 
And fiery dreams of joy disquieted. 
All sorrowful to know, shame-kissed, and fed, 
Telling the color of thy closed eyes. 
And clothing with a raiment all thy sighs. 
And twining all the shapes of sweet limbs dead. 
Into an agony that none would wed; 
With low and soft-winged words, lit up again. 
By all thy cruel prayers and cruel pain ; 
Full of the weight of an unlaid repose, 
As is the sea that hides thee where it flows. 




THE HILLSIDE RIDE. 



^X|^HE broad Alameda was shady and long, 

By fences and trees, where birds full of song, 
Said, "beautiful morning," as plain as they 
could. 

So away we rattled, by villa and wood. 

April was near, and her dainty, light feet 

Were full ankle deep in the emerald wheat; 

By and by deftly she'll take it and fold 

Over her instep its bandlets of gold. 

Like a Nizam's daughter in rank is she — 

A queen of the acres so broad and free . 

We left Santa Clara far, far behind; 
What cared I for my cheeks growing brown in the wind, 
For the scene was sublime, and a trifling veil 
Would only have served the fair view to curtail. 

Just here I'll remark, in my private confession, 
That I passed the next day at my leizure's discretion, 
In holding some butermilk over my nose, 
For, (seeing it's you, I don't mind to disclose), 
That owing to breezes suburban, and solar, 
My nose had a very remarkable color! 
However, as taletellers say, "We'll return 
To our story." The ride over hillside and fern. 



110 THE HILLSIDE EIDE. 

Poor Jenny was dry, when we came to a pool, 
She drew in the wheels, and she drank where 'twas cool. 
Now, if she were a donkey, instead of a mare, 
She'd have done, I've no doubt, just the same thing 
there. 

The myrtle and marigold glittered and quivered, 
Where shadows of poplar leaves on the sward shivered, 
Then, away and away, soon nearer and nearer, 
The sky and the flowers grew brighter and clearer, 
When they were before us — the hills; O, the hills. 
With torrents from mountains, that slumber in rills. 
And canons that cradle the records of time, 
On boulders of stone with their mysteries sublime, 
And the waters still flow with a sacred sound. 
Whose utterance falls on the silence round, 
Like the Oracle's power, of Delphic peace. 
In the hollows of seas, by the Isles of Greece. 

On a laurel browed edge, there we rode at risk, 
Near a daring brink; the revolving disk 
Of the wheels held Death o'er the beams of a bridge, 
Or the turn sf some sudden curve in tlie ridge. 

I thought of my sins, and the dash below. 
With next moment the change of a rapturous "Oh!" 
As the rocks and the flowers, the surge and the clifl", 
Grew brighter, and sweeter, and broader as if 
Some world I had left, in some other Life's Death, 
Was back there before me upon the spring's breath; 
But oh ! as one comes to a hearth found cold, 
I found myself thinking some thoughts of old. 



THE HILLSIDE EIDE. Ill 

I pitied the nameless thing growing near by, 
With the purple of sunset all over its dye ; 
And I thoiight how lonely its seed had been thrown, 
Where the wind blew a little of dust on a stone, 
And the seedling thought, full of hope, no doubt, 
"What a nice high place I shall have to sprout." 
So the anxious bloom of a chastened wrath 
Grew there, in the wind, on the rock's hard path. 
No tender place could I see for its fall, 
When its bloom should go back to its life's recall; 
There was only the bed of the gulch below. 
Where the rocks break up and the west winds blow 
From the sea; and the torrents, through crushing 

arcades, 
Break out from the gates of the hills, on the glades. 
I knew it would perish in falling down. 
With its tender leaves and amethyst crown. 
So I stretched my hand, and reaching for it, 
I said, " I shall take you and call you 'pet!' 
I shall save you from loss ; I shall put you where 
I have other flowers, in a garden fair;" 
And kissing my wild thing, so violet-eyed, 
For sake of two lips on this life's other side. 
That might say, I could hear them, " I see that you do 
Unto others, my flower, as is done unto you." 
■:■ From San Jose to Lexington. 



LINES. 

WRITTEN ON MEETING A BEOTHER WHO WAS ILL, 

AND FEOM WHOM I HAD BEEN FOR SOME 

TIME ESTRANGED. 



^e§}C'HINK'ST thou not, my heart was sad, to weeping, 
On seeing thy step once joyous now so slow; 
Ah yes ! though under smiles the sorrow keeping. 
With all the things that Life may never show. 

But now, with after thought and lonely hours. 
And in the quiet stillness of mid-watch, 

It will be heard for all its many powers. 
And for the fond love that forgiveth much. 

It will be heard for sake of happy years, 
Where clustered vine, and bird, and flower, and bee. 

And for the sake of sweet and treasured tears, 
That lie in graves beyond the summer sea. 

And for the sake of that sad care o'er shading, 

The brow whose earliest signs my own hath known, 

Too well, for smile, or jest, their life evading; 
Giving strange splendor to their weary tone. 



IMPKOMTU. 



113 



But stars shall wane, oh tender brother mine, 
Ere mirthful eyes shall cease to veil the heart, 

But in their misty depths, like lees in wine. 
The pain well-mated knows its counterpart. 

The songs, whose spirit tone hath vanished long, 
And whose sweet chords are yet called melody. 

But not the voids can music fill with song. 

As with dead flowers, the caves of the sad sea. 



IMPROMTU. 



A PEOPHECY FOE MY FAIR MISS MAEY L — HY. 

ijHE day's rose red,— the frontlet's shield, 
X Of all the stars in heaven's field, 

And strange, deep, grand blooms of the sea. 
Will yet come very near to thee. 



THE TBI-COLOB ON THE SPIBE AT METZ. 



[The famous French trl-color \h still flying from the spire of 
the cathedral at Metz. ThePrussian authorities have made every 
effort to have it removed, but without success. They have vainly 
offered 1 rge sums cyf money to any adventurous person who 
would climb the steeple and remove it, while their sharpshoot- 
ers have uselessly fired thousands of shots ai it. The people 
have come to look at the lone flag as a good augury, ihey say 
with enthusiasm that the flag of France still floats above them, 
and when the breeze extends its folds in the direction of the 
Rhine, they point to it and say to each other in the streets, 
"f.ook! we St all have a fine day, the wind comes from France!" 
There is said to be in all Metz only one man who is both skillful 
and daring enough to climb the s eeple to its entire height. 
This is he who placed the flag there. He is a poor workman 
who, during the war, attached the flag to the peak of <he spire 
for five francs; but the patriotic Frenchman has refused the 
Prussian Governor's offer of 5,000 francs to remove it.— i'^c- 
clutnge.] 



IKE a life with its heart ©f rose, 
^ And the blue of the deep's repose, 

And the wing where a white d3ve goes 
To the Ehine, if the still winds may, 
With an altar for its throne, 
On the spire at Metz alone. 
From the rise to the set of sun 

Flies the flag of France to-day. 
Look! the people say — and they look, 
Not a shot of a thousand struck; 
'Twas the silk dews filled and shook 
Its folds, while the night was long. 
'Now the day will be lifted fine. 



THE TKI-COLOE ON THE SPIRE AT METZ. 115 

For the breeze blo^vs out to the Rhine 
From the olive hills and vine— 

From France blows warm and strong. 
There is one, one daring hand, 
Only one in the whole full land, 
Only one firm foot to stand. 

He raised — will he strike it low ? 
At a call he came from the ranks, 
For a meager gift of francs. 
And his heart's love for his thanks. 

Is his name Constantine ? No! 
And he did not place it higher 
Than the cross in the clouds of fire; 
Yet the daring hour at the spire 

Of Metz shall a standard be 
When the burning Louvre smokes not, 
And the barricades, unsought 
With the tempters' francs, shall rot, 

While the Seine flows on to the sea. 



w> 




THE HAUNTS OF THE GREEK BBIGANDS. 



fN the Raphini wood, with mist and rain 
The hillside copse, pine-hung, shows darkly near. 
"Night on Pentelieus," and o'er the plain, 
Where deep Cephissian winds the travelers hear, 
Not with the Oread music of the past, 
But with harsh threats which rose upon the blast. 

In the green calms of some long trodden pass, . 

Some place as far as Deceleia's sea, 
Three thousand feet below. Whose loveliness. 

With Phidian rocks grow hoarse, and mourn for thee, 
Cradle of sorrow; uu appeased — and wrong. 
Now the Albani hath grown fierce and strong. 

Strong by the tireless hearth to night's rapine, 
From huts long shelterless, the shepherd goes. 

Where silver harness clanks beside each shrine, 
And idle gazers come, and move the rose 

From dear Castalie, where sweet fountains fret 

Over some scribbled name, or coronet. 

Where the bright arbutus alone should be, 
Eecorder of sweet tracings, in the glow 

Of suns, on slopes that reach Thermopylte, 

Where the loud organs of the strong waves flow, 

With old time music — where the rocks arise, 

By Corinth, under glows of South sea skies. 



THE HAUNTS OF THE GREEK BEIGANDS. 117 

Egean beauty, let thy calmness grieve; 

Let all the prestige of devotion's zeal, 
Give to thy burdened claims what may reprieve. 

The sorrow of revenge's vain apj^eal, 
For him,* who died there, whom her laurels crowned — 
Let England deem thee more than classic ground. 

Mount of Enbea ! where theirt last look turned. 
Cover thy face from the Delphian vale; 

They slept — ynth hopes beneath thee, dimly urned — 
Thy desolation heard a lingering wail — 

In the flute breathings over Platean tombs, 

Another tone shall wander where it roams. 

■■• Byron. 

+The victims of the Greek massacre. 




THY LITTLE CHILDBEN. 



INSCKIBED TO THE LATE MKS. CHAPMAN, DAUGHTER OF 
ME. AND MKS. DAN MUEPHY. 



" Oh! bappy! if to them, the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine." 

—Hcmans. 

^A^HEY, who will love thee, and cannot remember 

JxK^ All the full sweetness of thy young life here, 

^^ Ere the last days of heavy-dewed September; — 

What lingering signs shall whisper of thee, dear; 

Transfixed forever each high thought's pure feeling, 
Thy lit-eyes' splendor, and thy gentle voice, 

Soft looks, light footsteps; ah! what charm revealing 
Life's worth shall show them, that one charm that 



Thy tender patience, strong and brave and purest, 
Would break for them, death's fastness with thy 
heart. 

But the stern secret that so long endurest 

Once more's a spell; — thy radiant better part. 



THY LITTLE CHILDREN. 119 

Near to thee, sleeper: wlien the Spring returneth, 
With seed flowers on the breeze, — their little feet 

.Will come jincl wait, while low, the soft sun bnrneth 
O'er little Hps so long unkissed, and sweet. 

Thine, like two soft leaves of a white rose faded. 
Have left their smiles to love's unchanging faith, 

Though Nature weeps — what hast thou evaded 
Of cares and griefs, on Time's untraversed faith. 

Above the lifted mists of shining willows. 

Their childhood's joy-hushed eyes may wond'ring 
gaze, 

While loving lips may say, "behold the billows, 
Such was the grandeur of thy mother's days. 

Bright, deep, and placid, unto love completed — 
Now a sweet slumberer, — one image left, 

Tranquilly lovely as her steps retreated. 
Nay! not all bitterly, we weep bereft." 
San Jose, "October 2d, 1876. 




THE TOKEN BING OF ESSEX AND 
ELIZABETH. 



fOME day, beloved; — some other year, 
When scorn is dumb, and anger cold, 
I know just how you'll say: "yes, dear." 
I wish I'd been less stern of old, 
I know just what your thought will be. 
Finding some page forgotten where. 
Your hand will lift it tenderly, 

As though you softly touched my hair. 

And you will say: " I gave her this, 

I taught he I' all its mystic lore. 
The perfect great Eternities : 

The meanings of forever more," 
And I shall there in silence sit, 

I shall not answer quickly then. 
But soon across this hour shall flit, 

A patient memory of pain. 

The sweet tears shall not fall too swift, 

Perhaps forever they'll be dried. 
Where midnight aye; nor morn shall light. 

Their seals from graves which flowers half hide. 
The 13] ashing gulf with drifting sprays, 

That inland to the blossoms blow, 
Shall in their own dear tender ways. 

Leave buds for fingers, and — I'll know. 



THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED AT SEA. 

" The angels warbling their celestial psalms, 
Hath for thy coronal a golden throng 
Of everlasting s'ars "—Tasso. 

^i^MlJ'IS fitting that requiems of the deep 
HI) Now hover around thee in thy sleep; 
^ They murmur for thee, in their own sweet way— 

Kipple, and wind-waving wave-crowned spray, 
So like thee, fairest — who passed away. 

No flow'r or bird on thy pallet lies; 

But only the sunlight on thine eyes; 
Not the passionate sobs of the troubled deep, 
Shall waken them ever again, to weep, — 

For their holy watch now the angels keej). 

For thee is the summer south T\ind sweet. 
Where foam-wa-eaths break at thy fair young feet 
Like pale hands pressed, in their stricken grief 
For the lost young life so loved and brief — 
That left not with love a pang's reprief . 

Thou'rt gone; but see! how the pearl-clad sky 
Proclaims how near is thy home on high, 
Where the star-crowned night and the sun-robed day 
Hath borne from the earth a new light away — 
With thine angel brow, on their throne to stay. 



THE SNOW UPON THE HEIGHTS AT SAN 
SAN JOSE, GAL. 



w LOOKED upon the wintry day; 
JXK) The heavy mist lay still, 
♦^ Like a dense curtain stretch'd away 

Across each rugged hill. 
The stream grew to a torrent's roar. 

Birds flitted near in flights, 
And lovely, though like lances were 

The gleams upon the heights. 

The troubled well still murmureth. 

Its cascade's fervid song; 
I think in human words and breath. 

It means, "so long, so long." — 
Some sparkle dark, like steel-clad spears. 

Some pale, — like flower blights,^ 
But lovely, through the mist appears 

The snow upon the heights. 

The wilUow wands stand naked now 

Before the silver east, 
And sharp from the Sierras blow 

The winds across the waste — 
Like leopards' sides, the heavy foam 

In flecks of dark and white, 
Rolls up amid seas to the home 

Of snows upon the heights. 



SUNSET IN CALIFORNIA. 



The sun glared behind with ruddy beam 
Before my form was broken ; for in me 
His rays resistance met. I turned aside 
With fear of being left, when I beheld 
Only before myself the ground obscured, 
When thus my solace turning him around, 
Bespake me kindly. —Dante. 

tSEE thee, sunset of the distant West, 
In halos and rich shadows unconfined. 
I feel thy spirit thrilling on the wind, 
Voices of melody in trembling quest, 
Of flute-breathed places in the cascade's breast, 
Thou art not e'er o'erworn — thy bannered right 
Is always beautiful, forever bright, 
Waking high kindred in the soul divine, 
Deep answering mysteries all so like to thine, 
Not in thy colors or their blending tone, 
Or in the light mist o'er their ambience throv^'n. 
Thy realm hath more than these — through rock and 

stream, 
Whose liquid passion in dark places gleam 
Slowly and fervently; the grots of years 
Pass blindly into dust, and triumph wears 
A silver splendid pathway for the river, 



124 SUNSET IN CALirOKNIA. 

Whose haunts of melody grow thick, and quiver 
To sound of sea deejDS w^elcoming the end 
Where thy rich glories into voices blend; 
Of cadenced amethyst that never dies; 
Where mortal pulses beat no agonies, 
In basalt column or encrested reef, 
Whose agate veins define a polished leaf, 
Or marble lilies lean with slender stem, 
Not moving, but just seeming to move, when 
The water sways upon its j)allid grace; 
Turning and covering its chastened face. 
While years go slowlj^ the glaciers' pain, 
And slopes are fretted in their path's moraine. 
Till even glaciers break from years' of sheen. 
And channels burst out the firm rocks between. 

Could I transfix thee with Conviction's lance 
Where oj^aque shafts grow paler even now 
What diadems were in Thought's new brow, 
What noiseless tremor fading in thy flame 
Might say to Doubt, "Be still," Truth is my name, 
What great exact remainder might enhance 
Thy weariness to grace. The dear sad gift 
A golden radiance through a night-clad rift. 
Perchance the counterpart a touch would find 
The strong reflection challenged thus to be 
Heaction's just excess — an agony 
Drawn from abysses where no line may lie, 
In joys most deep, intense — Eternity — 
Possess me with thy great immortal plan — 
Eead me the lesson of earth's little span. 
The mortal measure of a day well done 
On change and darkness. The bright path alone 



SUNSET IN CALIFEENIA. 125 

Ne'er lustreless, new lands break into morns, 
The seed of blossoms shaken from their thorns 
In rifts of Indus tremble, and grow glad; 
The light illumes the good and now the bad. 



Oh, their jDrophetic right, who knew the rod 
That stretched o'er deep sea ways to paths of God, 
Counted the niimbers that were wafted o'er 
And those who never reached the further shore. 
In contentions of poor human might. 
When shall iuen name Thee and say "Here is Light ?' 
By many a rock tower of the soimding deep 
The vast unnumbered hosts of Pharaoh sleep; 
We hear thy pulse beat in the life of Time; 
We see the pillar where the serpents climb. 
But where the dead sleep the strong dirge is low 
With throbs of mighty sorrow in its flow. 
Unmarked their crowns of youth, their burial place- 
But high resplendence of thy days may trace 
The isle of coral in Arabian bays! 
When dates blow landward from the bending palm, 
And birds seek shadows, and a place of calm — 
Over them tenderly in silent hours 
Blows the most wayward breath of summer flowers. 
Gathering trial for a long dark fate, 
Then thou art like to Isis — desolate ; 
But haunt, and dell, and stream, thy realm shall be 
All voiceful records of thy majesty, 
Without the prayer of whispers in the night; 
When birds do cast no shadows in their flight. 
Making new harmonies grow august, when 
Darkness hath gathered over hill and glen. 



126 SUNSET IN CALIFORNIA. 

Fearlessness coming with a power to bless 

All that were troubled in the tenderness 

Of Hope, with ^gean murmurs on the strand, 

Greeting new mornings on an olden land. 

What though Sierras pine in vain for thee, 

No crystal court hath lost its melody 

Where glints of thee hath made the solitudes 

Give waters from the rocks for interludes ; 

The eye might deem not that earthquake played 

With trembling havoc in each low, hushed glade. 

Whose eves so beautiful — whose limits are 

Near thee and turning in the vesper star. 

Hung heavenward over wastes that shall be fed — 

The rock of old but for a sign hath bled, 

Wherein the lion now holds sway alone, 

And long white veils are draped o'er every cone. 

Man's footsteps shall tread softly— and fair hands 

Shall bring sweet chorded harps from other lands; 

Warm lights shall from home transepts cast a glow, 

An I summer leaves around the casement blow, 

Gently, so gently, for the human sake 

Whose radiant feet shall stand nearly to break 

The source of every ready sympath}' ; 

Land of the mountain, and the sun and sea; 

Most glorious presage of an altitude, 

Whose allegory in thee, as a wood, 

Lieth embosomed in an Island where 

The sea around it cools the fervid air. 



